Good Intentions
by Sanmyaku Ninja
Summary: Things never go as planned. In the midst of peace, something will usually happen. A bandit robbing a caravan, a legion of the undead rising to serve a necromancer, or in his case, an order from his king. Four years after the Dragon Crisis, Darion, the Last Dragonborn is called upon again to go boldly where few dare to tread . . . to Atmora of old.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: Okay! This will be the first chapter of a plot line I've had in my head for weeks now. The idea I'd like to believe is solid and decent, but my execution? That is what is really being put to the test. So please, fire away! Cause I have no idea if I'm any good at all!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or content from Game of Thrones or The Elder Scrolls series.**

Chapter 1: Pilot

Skyrim. The fatherland, the old kingdom, ancestral homeland of the Nords. Many are the lofty names and titles that describe the mountainous region with many varying climates, regions, and cities. Winterhold was no different in its individuality. The hold being mostly snowy tundra plains, snowcapped mountains, and an ice bound shoreline.

Inhospitable to most other races, yet the nords carried on in the frozen hellscape they called home.

***CLANK***

The loud noise brought him out of his reverie, his ears picking up the loud cheers of the builders down below in the newly rebuilt Winterhold. A wide grin on his face, he raised the tankard of brandy in a silent cheer, taking a hearty swig of the alcoholic beverage.

It was done. The final brick had been placed in the newest structure of the now rebuilt hold. Nearly four years prior, the city had been a mere shadow of its former glory being comprised only of ruined houses, failing shops, and a dwindling populace that held only contempt for anything magical in nature.

But now?

Looking down below, he could see his fellow apprentices, Jzargo and Onmund, seeming jubilant and basking in the crowds praise and celebration. Magic was frowned upon, hated even, by some of the townsfolk in that crowd yet now they embraced it when magic was used for not the selfish tendencies of most mages but instead for a selfless purpose. Like the rebuilding of Winterhold, for example.

Frozen, collapsed huts were not the ideal place for a person to live after all. Even in its prime before the Great Collapse, how a city this far north survived in thin wooden walls and thatch roofs was beyond him. Wood was a scarce resource on this icy tundra, but stone was a much more plentiful resource in the mountains the hold rested against. Plans were made, research on ancient building methods conducted, workers hired with the meager amount of gold left, and the reconstruction of Winterhold in the Atmoran building style began.

The old, dilapidated buildings had to be torn down of course and new shops were placed where they once stood. An apothecary/herbalist for potions and ingredients, a state of the art blacksmith complete with all facilities, a tailor, barber, bakery, butcher, a guard barracks, the docks complete with a fishery and shipyard, rebuilding of the Frozen Hearth tavern and general goods store, and lastly a small bookstore on the edge of the main street. Multiple houses had been built towards and alongside the newly built wall that ringed the icy cliff side, freshly cut stone adorned the pathways and main road that led out the main gate and towards the stables stationed just outside.

In truth, the massive project should have taken at bare minimum a decade to complete, what with near nonexistent funds or incoming trade.

'Magic has almost unlimited usage it seems.' He thought, swirling the liquor in his hand. 'Alteration does, at any rate.' He amended, downing the last bit of brandy in a single gulp. Hearing footsteps approaching, he turned his head around to see his teacher and now Master Wizard, Tolfdir.

"Enjoying the show down below, Archmage?" He asked, a small smile on his weathered face. Frowning slightly, the Archmage sat the empty tankard down on the cool stone railing.

"Come on now, Tolfdir, what have I said about formalities? Just call me by my name." He replied, his voice almost like a whine. The older mage chuckled, but nodded his head.

"My apologies, Darion, but I admit that I do tend to get carried away with titles." Toldir acquiesced.

Leaning back on the cold stone, Darion replied. "Hardly anyone even knows my name anymore. Most just call me by my titles, Archmage, Thuri, Quanaarin, Dragonborn, Stormblade, or the latest one, Snow-touched." Darion complained, pointing towards his head of silvery white hair.

Nords were a fair haired people, true, but very rarely did they have silver hair let alone at nineteen years of age. Aside from the odd hair color, his long hair framed his long, angular face with a set of sea green eyes, and a handsome nose. Aye, he would be a looker for sure, were it not for his smaller stature. He himself standing a head shorter than most Nords but a hair taller than many Bretons, likely due to being a mix of the two. Though having a stockier build somewhat made up for the height he supposed.

The older man looked down nervously, pulling an sealed letter from his sleeve. "And it would seem that your abundance of titles has caught up with you yet again, Darion." Handing the letter over.

Eyes widening, Darion reached out to take the letter. Looking it over, he spied in blue wax a snarling bear sigil. Brow furrowing, he broke the seal and pulled out the letter.

* * *

**To: Darion, Jarl of Winterhold, Stormblade, and Last Dragonborn**

**You are hereby ordered by his grace, High King Ulfric Stormcloak, first of his name, the Bear of Eastmarch, Protector of Skyrim, to embark on a mission at his Grace's behest. You are to fund and accompany an expedition to our frozen homeland, Atmora of old.**

**The purpose of this expedition is to begin re-colonization and repopulation of the continent. His majesty felt that given your particular expertise in the Thu'um and magical forces would be able to better facilitate the colonization efforts of our lost homeland.**

**Additionally, you are to conduct research on the ruins surrounding Atmora's landscape and search for anything that may help in our preparations for war against the Thalmor or an Imperial reclamation effort.**

**Since you will be funding this expedition, you are free to bring whomever you see fit, however you will also be expected to provide transportation for the expedition, as well as supplies. Both of which are needed more immediately in our preparations, this includes Stormcloak soldiers of course.**

**His majesty expects re-colonization to begin within the year, and for a total of three thriving colonies to be established on the continent. Succeed, and you will be richly rewarded, fail however, then you yourself shall be heralded as a traitor to Skyrim, all lands, holdings, monetary revenue, shall be seized and claimed by the crown.**

**You have but one week to prepare to disembark.**

**Talos guide you.**

**Jorlieff, Civilian advisor and acting scribe to High King Ulfric Stormcloak**

* * *

He blinked. Looked up to Tolfdir, who was waiting with bated breath, then back to the paper. He hadn't misread it. Eyes alight with rage and teeth clenched, he folded the royal missive and put it back into the envelope.

"Gather the council and send them to my chambers, immediately." Darion ground out, trying to keep a lid on his boiling anger. Tolfdir nodded quickly.

"At once, Archmage." He said in a curt manner already hurrying away. Darion winced at the reaction, in the back of his mind he knew he shouldn't have let his anger get the better of him or take it out onto his teacher, however briefly.

Sighing heavily, he stood and turned back to gaze upon his city again, snow already starting to fall down softly and blanket the new city wall.

"Hasn't even been a year yet, yet I have to leave it all behind."

* * *

It was only a few hours later when his chamber door opened. Darion's eyes opened slowly at hearing the old oaken door groan as it swung open.

"You call in a council meeting yet sleep when we come?" A lone voice spoke out in a questioning tone.

"Your getting lazy, young man." The feminine voice chided. He still couldn't see clearly to know whom it was but then again he didn't need to, the commanding voice was enough.

"And just what else am I supposed to do Rikke? Not my fault you take so long in the training yard." He retorted.

"One, you could do some planning ahead of time of the meeting, and second, your mages are some of the worst swordsmen I have ever seen." She deadpanned, reaching for one of the six empty chairs surrounding the table.

Darion laughed at her words. "Aye, they are terrible at it, why do you think I saddled you with the job of training the guards, mages, and citizen militia?"

She did have a rough go of it, he knew. Training soldiers with a disposition towards being of service to home and country? Piece of cake. Training citizenry in self defense and guerrilla tactics? Challenging, but doable. Trying to train a group of people that either didn't like to be hit, preferred ranged combat, or thought themselves above fighting in the muck and grime? Borderline impossible.

He himself had found that out the hard way years ago when he had tried to host swordsmanship lessons here at the College. After failing miserably, Darion began searching for someone with the grit, patience, and discipline to handle the mages. That led him back to Rikke, whom he had knocked out at Castle Dour and had slapped in irons until she changed her slightly suicidal mind. She never did.

But the promise of living for something more than being a prisoner in a lavish cell in the Palace of the Kings was irresistible. Not having to take orders from Ulfric himself being a nice touch of course.

"Did you just bring me here to laugh at my failures?" She huffed. Grinning widely, Darion replied.

"Would it upset you if I said yes?" He asked innocently.

"YES!" She shouted indignantly, face twisting into one of mild annoyance. Before their banter could continue, another voice chimed in.

"If you two are done squabbling perhaps we could get ready for the council meeting?" Eyes glancing up to see a scowling dark elf woman. Karliah. Another addition to his council, not Darion's first choice per se, but she did her job well enough.

That job being more or less keeping and maintaining a spy ring across Skyrim, black market deals via the Thieves Guild, and the rare assassination. The Thieves Guild tended to have a no-killing rule on any of their contracts, usually preferring to leave that sort of thing to the now eradicated Dark Brotherhood. But as part of the deal Darion had made with the new guild master, Brynjolf, the Thieves Guild would do open trading with the College of Winterhold and vice versa, provide a network of informants, have the option to carry out the occasional hit (in exchange for an exorbitant amount of money of course), and in return Darion would provide the Thieves Guild with a second base of operations, and turn a blind eye to any and all crimes committed by the Thieves Guild just outside of the city's walls.

Not the most favorable deal, true, but Brynjolf owed him one for helping to return the Skeleton Key and uncovering Mercer's treachery. The excess gold coming into the hold from the mines helped the offer seem better, but more than anything, it was Maven Black Briar herself that pushed Brynjolf into it. Since the fall of the Dark Brotherhood and the whole fiasco with the emperor, Maven had been running the thieves ragged now that the brotherhood was dead to make a show of her still being untouchable to her rivals, said rivals knowing of her connections to both organizations of course.

'It didn't help that she started paying less for the normal contracts and offering even less for her hits.' Darion mused. Single eyebrow raised, he addressed the dark elf.

"Now, now, Karliah you know we have to wait for the others to get here. Besides, if your that starved for attention you could have just said something." Darion teased, her only response a slight narrowing of her dark eyes as she too grabbed a seat.

"He is right you know, you tend to sit quietly unless there's some score to be had or new gossip to be told." Rikke pointed out, it didn't help Karliah's position since she always sat the farthest away from everyone.

"At least I have something important to say instead of moaning about how you hate training the mages." Karliah bit back, frown deepening. Now scowling Rikke made to retort.

'Okay, time to end this before it gets out of hand.'

Clearing his throat loudly, Darion looked between them both. "So any idea where in the gods names Gelebor and Miraak are?" He asked, trying to change the subject.

"Knight-Paladin Gelebor is out on an expedition to the Forgotten Vale with Brelyna and a few other mages." Tolfdir announced, striding towards his seat briskly.

"And Miraak is currently hunting down that dragon that attacked the mines last week." Another voice said, Kraldar, closing the chamber doors and locking the bolt in place.

Knight-Paladin Gelebor, last of the snow elves, former ruling race native to Skyrim. Normally the elf would never dream of leaving the Chantry of Auriel unguarded what with all his vows and oaths and whatnot, but he was but one lonely elf faced with a near infinite legion of his corrupted kinsman, the falmer. Like with Karliah a deal was struck, in return for Gelebor granting access to the Forgotten Vale to the mages of Winterhold and allowing the research of his peoples culture, architecture, and magics, the College would in turn safeguard the Forgotten Vale and provide assistance to any expeditions of Gelebor's in his efforts to find any other remaining snow elves.

In all honesty, that had slipped his mind entirely that Gelebor had run off on his trip with Brelyna in tow. But Miraak? How he wasn't back already was a mystery to Darion. The first Dragonborn had left out on his hunt just shortly after the dragon attack.

'I may need to send word to Paarthurnax and the Greybeards so they can reign him in if need be' Darion thought worryingly. Unlike the rest of his council that joined through deals, favors or loyalty, Miraak had to have his will bent to Darion's own. Literally.

In all reality he probably should have went along with Hermaeus Mora's plan of killing Miraak, but that would have ended with himself being Miraak's replacement. And even with all of the terrible things Miraak had done, enslaving an islands populace to construct large monolithic temples, torturing and killing people in the depths of said temple, for example. He still rose up against the dragons in the end, for whatever reason, and mostly just wanted freedom from Apocrypha and Hermaeus' schemes.

Still didn't hurt to keep a collar on him with Bend Will though. He would probably never trust the other Dragonborn further than he could shout him.

The sixth chair finally filled, Kraldar leaned forward on the long table with a sigh, looking exhausted as usual.

Kraldar's role on the council was about as simple as Tolfdir's. Tolfdir would manage the income and expenses of the College, promote, hire, and fire instructors. While Kraldar would do the same thing, just on a larger scale. That scale being the entirety of Winterhold hold. Income from the mines, imports and exports of goods from the docks, tax collection on all properties on the hold, and managing the workforce of the Jarl's private businesses such as mines and ships.

Crunching numbers was exhausting to most men it seemed. Good thing Kraldar was loyal and competent enough at the job. Also good at keeping secrets. Like why Winterhold was suddenly booming again.

"Well, now that everyone is here we can begin this council meeting." Darion announced, gathering the other four's attention immediately. His eyes glancing around momentarily in approval, Darion reached into his robe to pull out the royal missive.

"Read it and pass it around." He ordered.

Placing it on the table, he pushed the envelope to Tolfdir first, who opened the letter with trepidation. His aged face recoiling in shock, shaking his head, Tolfdir passed it on to Kraldar whose reaction was much the same. Even in his drowsy state.

Karliah's eyes narrowed briefly, but she passed it on wordlessly, Rikke, however, was outraged.

"That arrogant piece of sload shit!" She shouted, hands tightening around the paper, nearly ripping it. Her brown eyes alight with fury, she turned towards Darion's solemn form.

"You can't seriously be planning on going through with this?" Rikke asked, questioning. Eyes closing, Darion nodded solemnly. He was no fool. There was no possible way to complete this order he had been given.

"I must, unfortunately." He admitted. Breathing in deeply, his eyes opened, sea green eyes hardened. Looking to Rikke, he continued.

"Or at least, I must make a show of following it at least." He said. "I'm no fool. Re-colonization of a frozen continent that's inhospitable even to nords? That's a tall order, even with a decade or two. But a single year to establish three separate colonies? Impossible. And Ulfric knows it too." He stated, practically spitting his Kings name.

Brow furrowed, Tolfdir leaned forward. "I don't understand. Why would the High King give out an order that he knows you couldn't complete?" The old wizard asked, perplexed.

"Because he wants to get rid of his only rival for the throne." Karliah stated calmly, leaning back in her chair, arms crossed. Looking towards Tolfdir, she continued. "Think. When Ulfric started a rebellion but was captured, what happened that let him escape?" She asked rhetorically.

He knew the answer all too well.

"The Dragon Crisis and Alduin's return. Under Alduin, the dragons ranged all across Skyrim burning men and women alike, destroying villages, forts, outposts, and both the Imperial army and Stormcloaks were torn apart trying to stop them."

She turned to Darion, staring him in the eyes. "And one man did what his entire army could not. Slay Alduin and bring the dragons to heel."

Nodding with her assessment, Darion spoke up. "Even when I joined up after the Dragon Crisis it didn't seem to help my situation. If anything, I think I only stoked the fire and Ulfric took it as a slight." He explained. "And then after taking Solitude we were to wait for the moot to meet and a new High King to be crowned." Darion told them, everyone's eyes focused back on him again.

"They did meet a few months later. Jarls loyal to Ulfric cast their votes for him of course, they owed their new positions to him, and Elisif was practically held at sword point to cast her vote in favor of him. It looked like he was going to get a landslide victory in the moot, like everyone had come to expect." He paused, sighing slightly.

"All except for Jarl Dengir. The stubborn old fool. He was the one who nominated me for the position of High King, and the first to cast their vote for me. After a short speech by himself, the Jarls of Riften and Hjaalmarch soon followed and recast their votes."

Darion laughed lowly, a bitter hollow sound. "Oh, Ulfric was absolutely livid. He merely stood there, locked in place, watching as one by one the Jarls turned away from his 'rightcheous' cause. I can still see him standing there, his head looking like an overripe grape just ready to pop." His laughter ceased, eyes downcast, looking at the table he continued.

"The war for Skyrim's independence had been won. Won by a man who thought himself King, yet his Jarls were already looking for another that they thought a safer option. The civil war had been costly, and very, very bloody, and if I was crowned King then that war would be back on again." His tone somber, Darion took in the others expressions briefly.

"So I knelt. Pledged the same oath of fealty that all Stormcloaks swear upon joining. The reciting of that oath ended all talks of my rise to the throne. I was tired of the fighting, and the bloodshed, and only wanted to find some peace and quiet. I found Winterhold." He said morosely, sea green eyes looking towards his mentor.

"And Dengir was found dead in his bed a week later."

Everyone seemed to be at loss for words, not even Karliah had a word of input for the tale. It was Kraldar that broke the silence.

"Darion . . . . you couldn't have known. Dragonborn or not, a boy of fifteen would never have known the consequences." The middle aged man reassured.

"Wouldn't have known? Or didn't care?" Darion bit back harshly.

"My boy, the fact that this bothers you so, means that in the end, you did care. You cared enough to try to avoid another war at least." Tolfdir said truthfully, his words seemed to have some affect, as Darion's posture straightened and eyes focused again

"I suppose your right, as usual, mentor." He acknowledged with sigh, rubbing his eyes slightly. Reaching to the shelf behind his chair, Darion pulled out a large rolled map. Spreading it across the table he spoke.

"I tried to avert war back then, but that war will be here in one years time." Eyes darting from the map of Winterhold to his council he continued.

"The war will be here whether we want it or not, and no amount of diplomacy will stop it from coming. Rikke." He said, looking towards his military commander. "Begin conscription and training of anyone able to shoot a bow or lift a sword and begin work on defenses in and around Winterhold. Make them bleed for even thinking about a siege." He commanded.

"Yes, my Jarl." Rikke said with pride. Darion nodded in response, good he thought. "And while your at it, take and garrison Fort Kastav. That'll prevent Ulfric from sending troops northward from Windhelm." He added, his eyes now looking towards Karliah.

"I want you to have your people keep their ears to the ground, anything changes we need to be the first to know. And have your thieves locate Gelebor and Miraak and retrieve them as quickly as possible. Understand?" He said, as seriously as possible. The dark elf nodded once. "Got it."

"Something a bit more delicate as well. Get in contact with the Jarls of Riften and Hjaalmarch. See if they'll still support my claim and fight with us, but do it as discreetly as possible, we don't need to be tipping Ulfric off to anything." She nodded again in response.

Next up was Tolfdir, whom was leaning forward almost eagerly. "Keep the mages training harder than ever, I want them ready to throw fireballs with ease. And continue research on Shalidor's preserving enchantments and apply them to the whole city and cliffside. We don't need them causing another Great Collapse."

The old man nodded his agreement eagerly. "Yes, Archmage." Head cocking to the side slightly, Darion continued.

"And Tolfdir?"

"Yes, Archmage?" He asked.

"You'll be in charge of Winterhold while I'm gone. Try not to burn it down." He said with a wry smile. The older man merely chuckled lightheartedly. Finally, it was Kraldar's turn.

"And what about me, my Jarl?" He asked curiously.

"Start trade with outside provinces such as Solstheim and the rest of Morrowind. They won't fight with us, but they'll likely trade with us. House Redoran owes me a debt after all. And continue work on that greenhouse project you and Tolfdir were working on. If it comes to a siege, we don't need to be starved out."

Kraldar also nodded his accent. Looking around at the gathered faces, Darion exhaled quietly. "And I suppose if we are to continue with this charade we'll need some able bodied men for the journey."

"Kraldar."

"Yes, my Jarl?"

"Send a courier to Whiterun, I'd like to discuss a contract with their Harbinger."

* * *

**Aaaaaaanndd done. Well, let know what you think if you feel like reviewing. Due keep in mind though, that if anything in my writing seems a bit wonky then that maybe because I'm only relying on auto correct and self proofreading due to the lack of a beta. Anywho, I'll try to get the next one out soon!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Alrighty then, this will be the 2****nd**** chapter within the span of a week. I've tried to tweak and proofread the entire thing as much as I can so it's presentable. Oh and while I'm thinking about it, thanks for the reviews so far! **

**Though some of which I honestly have no ideas what their meaning by them. An updated list on political relations in the Reach for one. So thanks, I guess? Anyway let me know if you want me to respond to any and all review's in the notes or via messaging. And now on with the chapter!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or content from Game of Thrones or The Elder Scrolls Series.**

Chapter 2: Rise

The forge had always been a place of comfort for Darion. The rhythmic beat of hammers on iron, the heat wafting out from the forge's fires and the steam that would arise when quenching a newly made blade. It brought him a sense of peace, of tranquility, to turn something from its undesirable base state to something more. Something greater than what it had been before.

This desire to create something better had been one of his largest reasons in learning Alteration magic over something like the school of Destruction. Why should he continue to destroy everything around him when he held the ability to create?

He had been at work by the forge since early dawn, trying to forge himself a new armor set. One that could handle the bitter Atmoran cold with relative ease. Normally the town Smith, Uzog, would already be at work on his orders from the other citizens. Fixing a wagon here, hammer out a few nails there, or refitting and repairing the guardsmen's armor and weapons. But a hefty pouch of septims left the grizzled orc with little to no complaints.

No, Darion wanted to be alone in the forging process. It was rare that he got any time alone after all, what with having to juggle the responsibilities of both a Jarl and Archmage simultaneously.

Stopping momentarily, Darion lifted the steel cuirass up to head level, inspecting his creation for any deficiencies. Grinning widely upon finding none, he sat the cuirass down on the workbench before taking a step back to observe his newly crafted armor.

Darion had forged a variety of armors in his nineteen years of life, most being made from standard materials common to most smithy's in Skyrim, but he had made some from more 'exotic' materials before. Exotic being anything from enchanted ice, or stahlrim, to dark ebony armor cleansed in the heart blood of daedric beings, and armor made from the bones of his draconian kin. This particular set was much more tame compared to the others.

The armor Darion had created held not just one or two, but three separate alloys, all three being melted down and melded together almost seamlessly. Perhaps a little bit of Alteration had to be used to rearrange the metals matter correctly. He had used steel for the baseline material in the forging process and then melted down and added some pure silver to the mix. Silver itself was a very brittle metal, the kind that would bend with the slightest of touches. Not exactly the best material for armor.

But the best kind for fighting the undead and other cursed creatures like werebeasts. Their was a reason why the Silver Hand used only silver coated weapons after all. Combat capabilities aside, he still had to counter the silver's brittle nature.

Hardest ore currently known to man and mer? Ebony. When not used for daedric armor at any rate. Denser than most steel out there and harder than likely any stone. Expensive as sin though.

Picking them up piece by piece with barely contained glee, he began to hook all the pieces together on the armor stand adjacent to the forge. Throwing a black bear fur hood on top, he backed away to see his creation in all its glory.

For something so simple, it seemed to outshine anything Darion had seen in Skyrim thus far. Staring back at him was that same smoky grey cuirass, the armor itself almost having a very slight ripple pattern.

Eyes trailing around the armor, he could see the crown of Winterhold he had painstakingly engraved in the midsection of the cuirass and leather arm guards. The deep green woolen shirt took up what was remaining to be seen underneath the cuirass and plate pauldrons, the chainmail hauberk only poking out ever so slightly around the rim of the forearm length gauntlets. A short, black cape emblazoned with a sea green Eye of Magnus and embroidered in silver along the edges hung loosely on the back right side of the armor, attached only to the fur hood.

The only thing not to be seen was the dark brown gambeson he had ordered, the quilted coat sitting somewhere beneath the suit of plate.

Hanging limply down below was the deep green standards he had requested a day earlier and he could see that the new tailor had not disappointed. Written in white fabric along the edge was his very title, Dovahkiin, scrawled out in dovahzuul and above it was the sigil of the college, the Eye of Magnus, sewn into the fabric, a pair of midnight black trousers and a chainmail and leather chausses underneath for protection, and finally a pair of steel cuffed boots sat at the base of the stand.

Putting his hand on the greyed steel, Darion smiled, nearly bursting with pride at what he had made. The only thing left to do now would be to enchant the armor to better withstand the elements using Azura's Star and to add the heavy leather strap to carry Volendrung on his back. And perhaps his sword belt to carry a backup weapon or two.

A single, long horn blast and the clamor of the curious townsfolk broke him out of his silent musings.

The enchantments would have to wait for later. The Companions were here.

* * *

"That's a hell of sight compared to what it used to be." A woman remarked, taking in the sight before her eyes. Her male counterpart could only nod in agreement as he too stared up at the imposing stone walls that seemed to loom ominously in the distance.

"Last I remember of this place was when pa brought me and Gerdur along on a business trip for a few enchanted axes." He told, reminiscing about his youth.

"The walls, the guard towers and most of the buildings had dropped off into the sea and all that remained was a couple frozen huts nestled against that mountain." He said, hand pointing towards the mountain range to the groups immediate left.

Turning to regard her companion, the woman nodded as well. "And from what I remember, that College was the only thing left standing after the collapse. Most folk just blamed them for it all." She recalled, her face being one of astonishment.

Nudging his horse into a trot, the Harbinger made to catch up to his flame haired counterpart.

"Still, what's your thoughts on this contract the Jarl's wanting us to do?" She asked, emerald green eyes twinkling in curiosity.

The man merely shrugged. "Darion always had a habit of jesting to make up for his stress. But the wording . . . He asked for me by name in that letter. This isn't a joke to him."

"So you think this expedition of his is true? Why in the gods name would he want to go to Atmora of all places? And why would he want to talk to you directly, Ralof? This is something the whelps could have done instead." She argued, her brows furrowing slightly.

The blonde haired man laughed lightly. "We'll find out soon enough Aela, I'm sure Darion has his reasons."

As the two Companions neared the gate a horn blared somewhere along the wall, sounding their arrival.

"Seems they were expecting us." Ralof joked lightly, guiding his horse to the side of the gates and towards the stables. Dismounting, he tossed the stable boy a septim before striding back out to the gate, Aela following just behind him.

The oaken gates opened slowly, wood creaking as they did and a solid steel portcullis could be seen raising behind them. A second pair of reinforced doors opening behind the portcullis revealing an old man, seemingly well into his seventies with light grey hair, dark brown eyes and an equally wrinkled face. He smiled kindly at them both.

"Welcome to Winterhold my dear Companions! The Archmage has been expecting you." He informed cheerily, arms gesturing to the city behind him dramatically.

Aela's green eyes narrowed slightly at his glib greeting. "We received a letter from the Jarl of Winterhold to discuss our contract. Not your Archmage." She stated. The old man only chuckled.

"My dear, the Jarl and the Archmage are one in the same, my former student Darion Stormblade, rose into both roles over time." He explained calmly.

Aela seemed to relax somewhat at his words. "You seem to know of us, but we don't know of you. What's your name sir?" He asked, his electric blue eyes staring at the old man quizzically. The aged man seemed to be taken aback by this as he looked abashed at his error.

"My Apologies, Harbinger, but my name is Tolfdir. Master Wizard at the College of Winterhold and teacher of our current Archmage and Jarl." Tolfdir said with a small bow. Looking back to his guests he motioned for them to follow him.

"If you would please follow me, I will escort you both to the Archmages quarters where he awaits you." He explained with a small smile, already turning to walk down the street.

Quickly following after the old mage, the trio settled into a brisk pace. Both Companions taking in the surrounding sights. People could be seen walking and talking as they went down the street oblivious to their surroundings, merchants trying to sell their wares from their small stalls, and a few children looked to be building a snowman at the corner of the local bakery, whilst said baker was placing a freshly baked pie in the window to cool.

The previously abandoned city was thriving. How his white haired friend had managed to bring this ancient hold back from the brink, Ralof hadn't a single clue. Until he looked up ahead and toward the left that is.

Just off the main street and to the left sat a rather large entrance to the town mine. A few dozen miners and even a few robed mages could be seen working the mine. The miners bringing ore up from the depths in carts and the few mages at the entrance seemed to be using some form of magic to strip away the excess dirt and stone from the pieces.

The Harbinger's eyes widened at seeing the lumps of seemingly useless stone be slowly stripped away to reveal the shining silver ore beneath the dirt and rock. Looking closer, he could also make out a few chunks of gold in those carts.

'So this is what put Winterhold back on the map.' He realized, watching in astonishment as one of the mages walked down into the mineshaft, following after another worker and moments later he could hear an explosion from within the mine and the cheers of the miners within.

Instead of the use of magic being feared it was being put too use in growing the hold. In this case, helping the city's mining operation.

"I suppose this was one of Darion's ideas?" Ralof asked, nodding towards the still bustling mine. Tolfdir's steps slowed slightly, his wrinkled hand outstretched pointing towards the mine. "The mining system? Oh, yes. It was one of the Archmage's very first projects once he took the office."

"And how did that go with the previous Jarl, Korir?" Aela asked curiously. Not many knew the story after all save those who resided in Winterhold. The transition of power in the dying hold had happened swiftly, and all in the span of a day. Some claimed the Archmage murdered the previous Jarl, others said that the Jarl simply abandoned the hold entirely.

Tolfdir chuckled nervously at the question. "Not well, I'm afraid. The Colleges relations with the rest of Winterhold were already soured due to the incident with the Eye of Magnus. That, and Korir being of the firm belief that the mages caused the Great Collapse did nothing to help matters." He explained.

Inhaling, the old man continued his lecture. "Magic, though extraordinarily helpful, has had a tainted reputation ever since the Oblivion Crisis some two hundred years ago, and all the magical disasters since have only served to paint an increasingly darker picture."

Coming to a halt, he turned to face them both. "The people of Skyrim have almost always held a disdain for magic and none more so than Korir and the other townsfolk that felt as he did. They blamed us for the Great Collapse that destroyed Winterhold and while we did deny their accusations, we did nothing to prove otherwise. Instead we hid ourselves away in our College, blocking out the cries of the needy with our search for knowledge and all the while their resentment grew."

Turning from his audience, Tolfdir gestured towards the surrounding town. "Things reached a boiling point four years ago. In one of our expeditions into nearby Saarthal, we found an impossibly powerful magical artifact. The Eye of Magnus. It was brought back to the College to be studied in relative safety, but its power was tampered with by one of our guests at the time. The Thalmor Ambassador, Ancano. Tapping into the power of the Eye, Ancano slew the previous Archmage and Master Wizard and unleashed a hoard of magical anomalies that nearly destroyed what remained of Winterhold."

Pausing momentarily to take in their expressions, Tolfdir continued the tale.

"Once the magical energy was contained, Darion went off to retrieve the Staff of Magnus in order to stop Ancano. He returned and did so. My student becoming the new Archmage shortly afterwards. Unfortunately, he now had to deal with a justifiably enraged populace and an incensed Jarl. Knowing this, Darion began setting orders for the mages to engage in relief efforts in the town below. Healing the injured, repairing damages, replacing destroyed goods and such. Korir refused Darion's help and instead forced Darion to do something unexpected."

The Companions were seemingly enthralled in the tale, both man and woman staring at the old wizard intently.

"What was it that Darion did?" Aela asked in curious manner.

"Darion challenged Korir to a duel in the old ways. The very same type of duel that occurred between High King Torryg and Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak."

* * *

Flashback

* * *

"What? You want to run that by me again?" Surely he had misheard him, right? Looking behind him to his teachers aged face, his heart sank. He wasn't joking.

"Jarl Korir has refused any offers of aid from our mages. Be it in healing, rations, or reconstruction. He has also instructed his guards that any mage from the College found down in Winterhold is to be killed on sight." Tolfdir repeated, his tone somber. Sea green eyes narrowed in a mix of confusion and annoyance, Darion felt ready to tear out his own hair.

'What has possessed that man to think this way?' He wanted to yell, but he already knew the answer. He had just fixed the root problem barely a day ago. What he couldn't understand however, was how in the hell Korir thought he could get out of this mess on his own. Darion himself had to fetch the man an ancient helmet of a former Jarl of Winterhold just so he would have a CHANCE of being heard by the other Jarls.

Sighing heavily, he rubbed his temples roughly. "Bad news aside, has everyone made it back to the College grounds?" He asked hopefully. Tolfdir shook his head in response.

"Not yet Archmage, the last group to be recalled was Brelyna, Onmund, and Jzargo. And that was barely ten minutes ago." The older man informed calmly.

Even though his voice didn't give it away, his wrinkled face certainly did, the old mage was frowning deeply in concern for his charges. Other instructors at the College could hardly care what happened outside of their own little worlds of research and comfort, but not Tolfdir, he always worried for and looked after his students as though they were his own children.

Nodding in gratitude, Darion turned back to the stone railing, looking back out towards the still smoking town below.

"Alright, let me know as soon as th-" He started, only to be cut off as a fiery explosion split the air down below, the thunderous noise giving way to the sounds of muffled shouting down below in Winterhold.

'Shit.'

Wasting no time, Darion broke off into a sprint down the battered stone bridge, barely even registering Tolfdir calling out to him. His voice now distant Darion found that he didn't care. He had to get down their before he lost any more people, let alone ones that he called friends.

Leather boots touching down on the soot filled snow he continued running, snow crunching underfoot as he did so. Rounding the next corner, he could see his friends backed up against the tavern fighting for their lives against seven Winterhold guardsmen.

Jzargo seemed to be holding his own, but was slowly being overwhelmed. The prideful Khajit was covered in a fiery cloak, lashing out at the guards viciously with a steel dagger and claws. Brelyna was backed against the tavern walls being beaten senseless by one of the guards, her staff laying in a snowdrift mere feet away, and Onmund was slumped against the wall, his form unmoving.

Eyes alight with rage, Darion drew in his breath and let his Thu'um fly.

"**FUS RO DA!" **Force, balance, unrelenting.

A vortex of blue energy ripping out from his throat, it expanded, and slammed into six of the guardsmen without mercy, their bodies nearly tore apart by the flurry of raw power. His ears ringing from the shouts concussive force, the last guardsmen backed off of the female elf, looking around alarmed. He didn't have any time to react before a cold, steel blade pierced his throat.

Choking on his own lifeblood, the guard went limp. Grunting, Darion kicked the man off of his blade and sheathed it before turning around to Brelyna and Jzargo's relieved faces. Brelyna lunged forward, grasping Darion's surprised form in a hug, sobbing quietly. Jzargo rolled his eyes but nodded his head in gratitude as he sheathed his dagger.

Putting his hands on her shoulders, Darion pushed her away gently. She looked up at him in mild surprise, her face already starting to darken even more than normal, her face beginning to bruise.

Darion frowned at the sight, he should have been here sooner. If he had then Brelyna wouldn't be hurt, Jzargo wouldn't be missing a piece of his tail and Onmund might still be alive.

'I'm sorry I didn't get here sooner, my friend.' He thought somberly, looking over Brelyna's shoulder to Onmund's still body.

Not wanting to accept the reality of the situation, he whispered a single word.

"**Laas." **

Life, the draconic word meant and to his astonishment, it still existed in Onmund's body. The bright red, flame like aura looked like a flickering candle just about to blow out. Eyes widening, he looked back to Jzargo, whom was standing awkwardly off to the side.

"Take Onmund back to the college, immediately. Guard him on the way Brelyna." Darion ordered sternly, Brelyna only nodded numbly, already moving back to get her staff. Jzargo seemed confused looking back to Onmund then to Darion as he shifted from foot to foot nervously.

"Onmund took the mace blow meant for this ones head. I am sorry my friend, but there is no way he can possi-" He began, only to be cut off by Darion's now enraged voice.

"HE WILL BE DEAD IF YOU DON'T GET YOUR FLEA RIDDEN ASS UP TO COLETTE!" Darion roared, his voice giving way into the thu'um as the air crackled around them. The prideful Khajit practically jumped to attention, giving a quick response of 'yes, Archmage' before grabbing Onmund's unconscious body and dragging a stunned Brelyna along.

The pair of mages now safely away running back to the College, Darion's ears twitched at the sound of snow being crushed underfoot as someone strode angrily towards him.

"So, the hero comes down from on high to see the consequences of his actions!" The voice said snidely, the hair on Darions neck bristled at the mans voice. Turning around abruptly, he could see the man standing there mere feet behind him, sneering at the Dragonborn.

Korir.

"Jarl Korir, to what do I owe this visit?" Darion asked calmly, his face unreadable to most.

Sea green eyes glancing around quickly, he could count a total of ten more guards beginning to surround him with their weapons drawn and at the ready. Making matters worse, some of the townsfolk had started gathering around the scene trying to investigate.

"You know very well why, Dragonborn." The brown haired man practically spat. "Do you see what you have caused?" He shouted, his arm pointing out towards the smoking houses surrounding them, the ash from yesterday's fires still fresh as they laid mixed with the powdery snow.

"Your College took away our homes eighty years ago in the Great Collapse and now you try to finish the job!" Korir shouted, his barbed words beginning to whip the gathering crowd into a frenzy.

'He's trying to turn the people against me.' Darion realized worriedly, to what end he knew not. Even if Korir rallied the town against them the angry mob would be slaughtered like livestock.

'Is he really that far gone?' He wondered. Left hand resting on his sheathed sword lazily, Darion replied.

"Aye, the magic used yesterday nearly destroyed Winterhold." He admitted loudly, the crowds jeers and insults only increased at his words. The words sorcerer scum, monster, and abomination could be heard leaving their lips.

"And that same magic nearly destroyed the College. It killed our Archmage and Master Wizard, Savos Aren and Mirabelle Ervine." He proclaimed, his voice and eyes hardening as he addressed both the gathered crowd and Jarl. "And the one that used the Eye's power for ill lies dead on College grounds. The magic he unleashed overwhelmed your guards," Darion said, pointing towards the Jarl.

"And began to tear Winterhold apart. Don't forget, it was I who led the mages down here to save Winterhold, it may have been mages that caused the problem but it was the mages you despise that came to pull your asses out of the fire." He said with vigor, barely managing to suppress a smirk at Korir's enraged expression. The Jarl's pale face had turned bright red and looked ready pop a vein while the crowd began to quieten and was murmuring amongst themselves. Only the guards seemed to not be swayed, their swords and shields still held at the ready.

"So you'd lay the blame on another's feet? Fine then, it doesn't change the fact that you and your ilk have destroyed our once great city. First with the Collapse and now this . . . . mess!" Korir spat venomously, looking towards Darion with hate filled eyes.

"Its high time you and your College left my hold! You have caused us nothing but grief and misfortune in your time here!" The Jarl announced loudly, the crowd cheering with his order, though not as loudly as before, Darion noted.

"And I could say the same for you Korir!"Darion shouted, his words making the Jarl cease his basking in the mobs support. The crowd fell silent instantly while the Jarl looked back towards Darion, snarling nastily.

"No mere boy can challenge a Jarl to a duel." He dismissed quickly. Darion only laughed lowly in response. "I am no 'mere boy' after all, or have you forgotten?" He asked rhetorically.

"I am Darion Stormblade, hero of the Civil War, the Archmage of the College of Winterhold and the Last Dragonborn, the slayer of the World-Eater Alduin." The white haired man proclaimed proudly, looking Korir dead in the eyes, sea green meeting honey brown, he continued.

"Jarl or not, you know that you cannot refuse a challenge from me, lest you be reviled as a craven. So here and now, I, Darion Stormblade challenge you, Korir, Jarl of Winterhold to a duel in the old ways for leadership of the hold of Winterhold."

* * *

A single hour later, Darion could be seen sitting on a barrel sharpening his sword with a whetstone. The young nord waiting patently for his opponent to exit the longhouse.

Korir had accepted his challenge, albeit reluctantly. Likely the only reason he did was because of Darion challenging him in public. However, the Jarl left the street to fetch his armor for their impending duel. He had to suppress a snort of laughter at the thought.

The irony of the situation wasn't lost on him. Here he sat challenging another man of higher status to a duel to the death in true winner takes all fashion. He had criticized Ulfric for doing the same with Toryyg and had even vowed to never do the same as he did.

In his eyes, Ulfric went after Toryyg not to free Skyrim but instead for his own power. Meeting the deceased monarch in Sovngarde had been very . . . enlightening. Brow furrowing, he stamped out those thoughts swiftly and brutally. He was doing this for a real purpose. He had a responsibility to the College now as their Archmage and that meant that he was duty bound to see to the protection of their wellbeing's.

For better or for worse.

And, who knows? Maybe when this was all said and done, he could work on rebuilding the town into the glorious city she once was. Perhaps change a few folks minds on magic while he was at it, though that would come at a far later date.

He wasn't worried about this duel, not in the slightest. If anything, Darion felt an odd sort of calm, though the same was not likely to be true for Korir. They both knew that if push came to shove, then Darion could use his thu'um to win easily. But that would mean being more like Ulfric and Darion wanted, no, NEEDED to know that he could be better than that.

Tapping the edge of the blade with his index finger, he decided it was sharp enough and pocketed the whetstone. Looking back towards the longhouse to resume his vigil.

Tolfdir had arrived shortly after he challenged Korir, but the old man had been surprisingly quiet. He had instead elected to stand amongst his peers in the gathered crowd just behind the remaining guards that circled the makeshift arena.

Darion's eyes roamed the crowd briefly, searching for his teacher, finding him deep in conversation with another, equally old man. He didn't appear to be a mage given the mans lack of College issued robes but the mystery man would have to wait for later it seemed. As Korir had finally emerged from his longhouse.

Walking down the steps, Korir raised his arms in response to the crowds cheers. Strutting about like an overgrown peacock, the Jarl stepped closer to one of the guardsmen before taking the guards shield. His wife and child followed down behind him, coming to stand by some of the other guards.

It was time. Frowning, Darion stood from his seat and strode out into the circle, twirling his blade as he went. One of the guards stepped forward, offering him a plain, oaken shield. Shaking his head no, the guard looked puzzled but shrugged and stepped back into their formation.

Using shouts would lead to others saying Darion had cheated and using magic would paint him in a very dark light. The kind that would lead to a very large bounty of septims and people in Skyrim could have a bounty of twenty septims put on their heads for stealing an apple as is. He didn't want to even think of the price on his head if he killed a Jarl with magic, duel or no duel.

Not to mention that Korir was wearing a set of ornate, steel plate armor that looked to be fashioned after the ancient nords while he himself was only clad in leather studded armor and some steel cuffed boots and gauntlets. Maneuverability would be need to be key in this fight.

Raising his blade towards Darion, Korir smirked as he called out to his challenger.

"Having second thoughts yet? You can still take your fellow abominations and leave my hold. No one will harm or stop you." He offered. His words might as well have been acid to Darion, whom was disgusted at the offer. This man that spoke of honor above all else had the gall to dare try to slither out of his situation?

He had heard enough. Korir would die painfully, whether or not his family watched didn't matter to him in the slightest.

"Shut up and fight." He ground out.

Sword held above his hip in his right hand and his left balled into a fist, Darion began approaching his enemy. Korir raised his wooden shield to his chest, crouched slightly with his sword resting against the side of the shield and he stayed still, waiting for Darion to make the first move.

Darion obliged, fainting to Korir's sword side. Not realizing the feint in time Korir rammed his shield forward into Darion's sword hand, attempting to thrust his arming sword into his heart right after.

Rolling off of the shield, Darion slashed the sword against Korir's back. The steel blade only scraping across the plate harmlessly. Grunting, Darion kicked the man forward trying to gain some distance.

Korir stumbled slightly, but recovered quickly having already turned around and was advancing towards him. The armor was going to be a bit of a problem after all it seemed. Opponents like this were usually why he carried Volendrung on his back or shouted at them.

But even with the thick suit of plate, leather and furs Korir was wearing he still lacked discipline and would charge forward like an enraged bull when angered. Much like right now.

Korir charged forward, leaping towards him, sword raised high in the air. Dodging to the side, Darion slashed at the Jarls sword arm, trying to knick his inner elbow. He merely batted his sword away with a grunt throwing his shield forward into Darion's face and moving to thrust into his ribs again.

Turning sideways, the blade only grazed his torso, but it still caused him to hiss in pain. This seemed to egg Korir on, as he bashed Darion backwards, nearly hitting one of guards, and throwing another overhead slash.

Gripping the flat of his blade, Darion parried the blow and pushed Korir off with a roar. Lunging forward he slugged Korir with his free hand before bringing his sword down behind Korir's shield and slicing through the thick leather padding and into the nook of his shield arm.

The Jarl let out a pained filled scream, his shield dropping down to the ground and his left arm hanging limp and bloody at his side.

"BASTARD!" He screamed, staggering back slightly.

Snarling nastily, Korir lunged forward swinging his sword in a wide arc. Ducking under the flailing blade, he flipped his sword around in his right hand, jamming the pommel into Korir's stomach as hard as he could. The Jarl slouched forward slightly, the air leaving his lungs rapidly. He didn't seem to notice as Darion locked his sword arm on his bicep before bringing his left elbow down above the joint, dislocating it forcefully with a sickening pop.

Korir seemed to scream even louder, if that was even possible. Grabbing the pain-crazed man by the horn of his helm, Darion threw him forward into the center of the arena. Rolling around in the dirt in agonizing pain, Korir looked up too Darion with fear-filled eyes.

Darion smiled widely at the once-proud Jarls expression, his dragon soul roaring in approval at the pain he had caused the proud man. Sauntering forward slowly, he let his blade rake the dirt all the while never breaking eye contact.

"P-p-please I yield! I yield damn you!" He shouted. His voice practically saturated with terror. Stopping in his tracks, Darion cocked his head to the side, silently regarding the now begging noble. "I'll take my family and leave the hold! You'll never see me or mine again, I swear! Please!"

He yelled out, reaching out towards Darion with his twisted arm begging for mercy. Looking closely at the Jarls honey-brown eyes, Darion could see the pure terror in them as well as the beginning pin pricks of tears forming at the corners. Pathetic.

Shoulders sagging, Darion sighed heavily. "Very well, I'll allow you to leave." He announced. The surrounding crowd seemed to collectively sigh in relief, none more so than Korir's wife and child.

"Y-you will?" Korir asked. His voice hopeful at the notion of mercy. Looking back down into Korir's eyes, honey-brown met sea green for the last time.

"On your trip to the afterlife."

His sword thrust forward like lightning into Korir's exposed throat, the mans eyes the size of dinner plates as he choked on his lifeblood. Pulling the sword out, Darion wiped the bloodstained blade on his gauntlet, taking in the surprised screams around him. Glancing to his right, he could see Korir's wife was screaming hysterically, calling him a monster as she hugged her sobbing son closer into her chest.

Looking back towards Korir, he rolled his eyes in annoyance. Raising his hand and pointing it towards Korir's writhing form, he let a stream of golden light flow into Korir's body. His pierced throat closing slowly, severed windpipe and esophagus reconnecting and being mended together steadily by the spell.

Now drowsy from the blood loss, Korir sat upright, looking back towards Darion with terror in his eyes again. Wondering if the snow haired man intended to kill him again.

"I will show you mercy just this once, Korir. I could have let you bleed out in front of your wife and child and not cared in the slightest. But I like to believe in the concept of second chances. You'll use yours and leave peacefully, right?" He asked. His tone jovial but his words laced with a thinly veiled threat.

The now deposed Jarl, nodded numbly, unable to form words yet with his freshly mended vocal chords. He quickly got off the ground, not even caring enough to pick up his sword or shield.

'Not that he could mind you.' Darion mused, noting that both of Korir's arms were still incapacitated. The Former Jarl made it to his wife and son pausing briefly before motioning for them to follow him.

"And Korir?" He called out. The disgraced noble turned quickly to see Darion's grinning form.

"Due try not to even think about revenge, would you? I might not be so lenient next time!" Darion called out cheerfully. Korir seemed to sweat at the warning but walked away with his family saying nary a word.

Still smiling widely, Darion turned around to regard the gathered crowd. The old man he spied talking with Tolfdir earlier pushing his way through the sea of bodies and towards him. The grizzled man stopped in front of him. He turned around to look back at the gathered crowd.

"It is with great pleasure that I, Kraldar of Clan Ice-Wind, give you our new Jarl!" He proclaimed, his hand grasping Darion's sword arm and raising it high into the air.

The crowd erupted into cheers, people shouting out his name, saying gods bless the Jarl. None cheered as loudly as Tolfdir and the other College mages though. He could see his fellow apprentices Brelyna, Jzargo, and a wobbly Onmund cheering loudly next to Tolfdir. Darion smiled, it was all just surreal.

"Long may he reign!"

* * *

Flashback End

* * *

"Eh? You forgot the last bit there, Tolfdir." A man said in a sing-song voice. Looking away from the old mage to his immediate right, the Harbinger could see his old friend standing by the forge in dirty blacksmith clothes, soot covering nearly his entire body and face.

"If you remember, some people started calling me snow-touched cause they thought I was crazy. And because of the hair of course." Darion said. Pushing off against the log he was leaning against.

"Still kinda surprised you didn't notice me standing a few feet away though, Ralof." He grinned widely, walking down the steps and clasping the Harbinger's forearm in traditional nord greeting.

"Bah, your just that forgettable." Ralof jested. Feigning injury, Darion looked towards the other Companion.

"And I see you brought the beautiful huntress, Aela, with you as well!" He flirted, but to no affect. Aela only huffed in response her emerald green eyes looking away from the still grinning Jarl.

Darion seemed to recoil slightly at her icy demeanor. Looking back towards Ralof, he spoke.

"Kinda glad I didn't join up after the war if everyone is as icy as she is." He joked lightheartedly, trying, and failing miserably, to resolve the awkward tension. Clearing his throat, Tolfdir made his presence known to the group again.

"And just what were you doing down here Darion? I thought you would be planning the expedition in your chambers?" The old mage asked curiously, his brown eyes looking towards the Archmage questioningly.

The snow haired man simply shrugged. "Needed some fresh air, and besides, Kraldar's handling everything just fine, but now that you mention it . . ." He trailed off. Looking behind himself and towards the forge, Darion extended his hand towards one of the barrels, a rust colored light dancing across his palm.

Ralof's eyes widened as the barrel floated over towards his old friend weightlessly. Darion had the nerve to grin cheekily when he turned back around to his and Aela's stunned faces. Tolfdir merely rolled his eyes at the display.

"I wanted to forge something for the cold weather up north of here. I even had time to put it all in a barrel while you lot were talking a few feet away." Hand clenched and holding the levitating barrel close to his body, Darion began to walk down the street.

"Well, come on now you two, we can talk about the details on the way to my quarters!" He called out merrily, shaking his head at his friends antics, Ralof nudged Aela to follow along behind Darion and down the busy, snow covered streets of Winterhold.

* * *

**Aaanndd there you go, another chapter to be uploaded. Hope you enjoyed, and like last time, leave a review if you feel like I need improvement on something in here. Personally, I think Korir's lines were a bit too cliché and felt a bit out of place, but I couldn't think of anything else and I was curious what you guys would think of it.**

**Also, about the armor set. Yep, its largely based off of the Faaram Knight armor from Dark Souls but with a few tweaks here and their, the cape, the sigils, chainmail hauberk and chauses, gambeson, and no helmet being another difference. Also the steel's color and hue! Don't worry, it's not Valyrian Steel or anything. It just has the ripple pattern because of the magic used to meld the silver, ebony and steel together. Think of it as . . . Normal steel times two in quality while Valyrian is a solid times three.**

**Anyway, see ya when I get the next one done!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Yo! Just got done with this chapter just a little bit ago, and after proofreading it for a good couple dozen times, I decided to post it up so y'all could see it. And as for those of you that reviewed thus far, thank you, truly.**

**Aside from the occasional flame from the Dragonborn being a Stormcloak instead of an Imperial, it seems to be doing relatively well.**

**One more thing, this chapter won't touch on it too awfully much, but it has come to my attention that Ulfric himself has been acting a bit OOC so far. Currently working on the tweaks for that in chapters 1 and 2. Hopefully when the change has been made some of his erratic actions will start to make a lot more sense.**

**Anywho, on with the chapter!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or content from The Elder Scrolls Series or Game of Thrones.**

* * *

Chapter 3: Reflection

The wind blew noisily across the Sea of Ghosts. The fierce headwind making the ship bob back and forth gently in the surrounding icy waters. It had been many years since any long ships had sailed this far north, much less past the frozen isle of Roscrea.

Long enough, in fact, that where one should see the deep blue water of the sea you would instead be blinded by the windswept sheets of ice that seemed to stretch on endlessly across the open sea. It would only get worse from here on in, Darion knew.

They had departed from Winterhold aboard the Dainty Sload a little over a week ago, by now, and seven days straight of sailing was enough to do just about anyone in. This was rather apparent given the lack of people on deck that night. Most of the crew were abed right now trying to sleep off the meat and mead from the nights earlier festivities ashore on Roscrea.

The young Jarl stood at the helm of the long ship, leaning against the wooden railing looking out towards the supposedly haunted waters. It was only himself that was on deck and out and about in the chilly arctic night. Well, himself and two other men, one of which sat up in the crow's nest keeping a lookout for land while the other seemed to be snoring softly, the man sleeping while standing with his hand still grasped onto the wheel.

He suppressed the urge to snort at the navigator's apparent laziness. The other nord had probably drank a bit too much mead before setting out from Roscrea. Drunk or not, how he managed to sleep through the sound of the cracking ice, bewildered Darion, referring towards the small steel ice-breaker ram attached to the bow of the ship.

It was one of the many things himself and Arniel Gane had a hand in enchanting to prepare for the year long journey. Arniel had had the job of enchanting the more essential things, barrels for ration storage, enchanted furs and leathers for the crews warmth and comfort, and some fire runes and enchants to be fitted onto the steel ram, the steel being heated just enough to cleave through the ice sheets like a hot knife through butter.

He himself had gotten around to enchanting his own armor, using Azura's Star. With the Daedric artifact Darion had applied a great deal of frost and fire enchantments for three purposes, warmth and protection being his chief two focuses. The other miscellaneous function was for regeneration to keep him alive in battle after a mortal wound or two, it wouldn't grow back any limbs, but something was better than nothing he supposed.

Rolling his shoulders and trying to keep the muscles loose, he looked to his own state of dress. The Star had done its job excellently. He could stand out here in the frosty air stripped down to his knickers and probably not feel a thing now, the woolen shirt, trousers and steel cuffed boots being more than enough to handle the chill.

Enchantments could be very useful on all sorts of things, be it a simple door hinge or the gates to a major castle. But everything has its price, magic most of all, and if something did come for free then there was usually some hidden string attached.

'I don't want to even think about the cost for this damnable blade.' He thought. Glaring down at the cloth wrapped weapon in his hands. Enchantments could be harmless but one on a Daedric weapon was rarely so.

Sea green eyes hardening as he looked at the swords gilded ebony hilt that was poking out from underneath the pale cloth. He could feel the damn thing calling to him even now, Mephala's sickly sweet voice bleeding through the background noise of the sea.

The Ebony Blade. A sword that had toppled kingdoms and was used to kill entire armies effortlessly. He remembered the words Balgruuf had written in the small book lain beside the black blade.

'To kill while your enemy smiles at you.' He recalled. Melphala had spoken to him once he grasped the blades hilt, her melodious voice trying to lure him in with offers of power, wealth and fame. And all he had to do in return was kill those closest to himself.

Mephala truly was a web-spinner, had he been a lesser man Darion might have given in to the offer of power. His dragon soul already sought to dominate and gain power, but power was enticing, and very deadly.

Perhaps he should have left the blade in that room, safe under lock and key where no man or woman could ever touch it. But if not an adult, then a child instead. Balgruuf's bastard child to be exact, the boy had called her the Whispering Lady and seemed rather taken with her and secrets she told.

'No, it's better that no one ever get their hands on this twisted weapon.' He thought with determination. Left hand shifting downwards to grip the back of the blade and preparing to throw it towards the next gap he spotted in the ice.

A dark grey, vaporous mist seemed to roll off the pommel of the blade. Darion's body not moving in the slightest as the mist encapsulated him and began to take form before his very eyes. The mist had gathered closer to form a human like silhouette of a voluptuous, raven haired woman with chocolate brown eyes and was scantily clad in a thin blue robe.

Mephala. The web-spinner, Daedric Prince of secrets, lies, deceit, and sex.

She sighed, the sound sad yet lovely all the same. Looking upwards to see into his eyes, the Daedric being spoke. "Oh, Darion . . . . my sweet, misguided champion." She tittered, her voice sounding slightly depressed.

Darion's lip curled at her words immediately. "I am not your champion, not now, not ever. I thought I made that abundantly clear the last time we spoke." He ground out in irritation. The Daedric lord nodded her mist wrapped head.

"You did. If I recall correctly, you said that you would find your own path to power. And you did, for a time." Mephala said, her voice sly like a snake. Darion's skin crawled at her subtle mocking tone.

"But now you seek to throw away the power I offered you all those years ago." She stated. Her honeyed words hardening slightly. So that was it.

'She's worried about losing her artifact to the Sea of Ghosts.' He thought, the wave of realization hitting him like a galloping horse, he had to fight to keep his emotions in check here, lest she know of his plan.

Mephala had a right to be worried though. Her Ebony Blade had been subject to many experiments throughout history. Most of them being attempts to destroy the dark blade and rid Tamriel of its corrupting influence. Even the Skyforge failed in this task, and so the artifact was hidden in the depths of Dragonsreach for decades. The blade thought lost in its downtime, Mephala's sphere of influence dwindled and shrank to near nonexistent power, the blade itself now being her last chance of spreading her web of lies and deceit and putting her back in power again.

"Yes, you seek to cast my creation down into the depths of the Sea of Ghosts, forever lost to every soul of Tamriel." She said in a sing-song voice, her beautiful face smiling slightly at Darion's momentary shock.

She giggled, a sound that seemed so foreign to come from a near all powerful being, her wispy hand reached up to tap her index finger against her temple. "Even without reading your mind, I can read every mortals expressions like an open book." She explained, her brown eyes twinkling in amusement.

"Then why haven't you stopped me yet?" Darion asked. His sea green eyes looking away from her revealing form and back towards the horizon. She hummed in response, now beginning to circle his still body.

"Curiosity." She answered. Stopping to lean over his left shoulder, her ethereal body pressed against his.

Darion frowned at her simple response, damn his own curiosity. "About?" He asked with trepidation, still fighting to keep his gaze off of the Daedric lord. Her very being seemed to cloud his mind, read its scrabbled thoughts, and intoxicate him further. She wanted something, that much was clear, but beyond handing back the blade, he knew not what.

"Why you refuse my help when I offer it freely to you." She said matter of factly. Darion frowned at her words.

"You know why. I will never kill anyone I hold dear to myself." He said with renewed determination, his skin crawling as her hot breath tickled the hairs on his neck. He couldn't see her face, but he could practically feel the smile moving across her angelic features.

"So noble you are, to protect those close to you, even when they have betrayed you. Or should I say, will betray you when they learn the truth?"

His newly built resolve crumbling away, Darion looked back into the prince's chocolate brown eyes. She seemed to grin in triumph at breaking his resolve and enthralling the young Jarl.

"What do you mean, Mephala? Speak plainly, I grow tired of your riddles." He bit out, the words lacking the iron he had wished them to have. She seemed to notice, as her knowing smile only widened.

"You know of what I speak. You worry about your friends loyalty to your cause. You worry about what he'll do when he finds out about your plan." Mephala stated, letting go of his shoulder and moving to his right hand, grasping it gently.

"You worry about who he'll choose. His old friend or the king he swore himself to." She said knowingly, a small smile upon her lips. "The power in my blade could be awoken again but only with the blood of those you consider a friend or kin to yourself." Mephala said calmly, speaking slowly as though talking to a small child.

"You know he will betray you in the end. Yet you choose not to do it. Even when he took the woman you fancied."

Darion looked back into her eyes, his face in pure disbelief. "Aela and I never would have worked out, and she knew it too." He said, shaking his head roughly, trying to banish the thoughts of what could have been away.

"Did she?" The Daedric Prince asked, smiling coyly at him. "She sensed something in you that day you helped slay that giant, she offered you a spot in their guild and you said that you would join them. Her initial instinct about you proved to be true when you were revealed to be Dragonborn and so she waited for you, even though she had a lover of her own, she waited. And you never came."

Her head turned, and nodded towards the wooden planks below their feet. "And so she found comfort in another, your best friend no less, Ralof." She stated, her voice practically mocking him. "How does it feel, I wonder, to know that your best and oldest friend is fucking a woman you fancied, right beneath your feet?" She asked innocently.

Snarling, Darion ripped his hand away from her limp grasp. Stalking over to the other side of the railing and leaning against it.

"First it was Aela you ignored, then that dark elf girl, Brelyna, I believe her name was. She turned you away with hardly a word, preferring to keep you as her friend instead, Karliah was more of the same, the Imperial commander, Rikke, was nearly old enough to be your mother and last but not least, the heiress of the Volkihar clan, Serana." Mephala listed, her smile seemingly growing with his discomfort as his hands gripped the railing tightly, starting to splinter the treated wood.

"The one you crossed over into the Soul Cairn for, saved her mother from her prison, slew her mad father whom wanted to bring about an endless night of bloodshed and fear. You even became a vampire to save her, becoming something you hate with all your heart." Mephala said with what almost sounded like . . . pity?

"How did she reward you?"

His frown only deepening, he responded. "She left to go back to the Dawnguard. She left after our disagreement about Molag Bal's 'gift'." He said dejectedly. It had been some time since his thoughts had wandered back to the vampire woman.

During the fight with Harkon, she had been captured by her mad father and was about to be sacrificed at the bloody shrine. Harkon had been about to bring his fangs down into his daughters neck to tear out her throat when Darion had shoved Serana out of the way with Whirlwind Sprint, taking the bite meant for her and jamming the last sun-hallowed arrow into Harkon's black heart.

Afterwards, Darion had been furious at himself. Believing himself to be cursed to remain a vampire for the rest of his days. He couldn't end his life like his friend had all those years ago, no, too much depended on him. When he had found Talion out in Morthal, he had been elated. Shortly afterwards bringing the news to Serana, to whom he suggested that they could both be free of their vampiric curse.

The resulting fallout from their heated argument had led to the pair going their separate ways, himself back to the College of Winterhold and Serana back to the Dawnguard, they had never spoken since that day.

Sighing, Darion looked back towards the alluring Daedric Prince. "What does my love life matter to you anyways? You asking me out?" He joked lightly, a single eyebrow raised and a small smile forming on his lips.

Mephala's musical laughter filled the air, the sweet sound carrying out across the open waters surrounding the ship.

"This is why I chose you as my champion, Darion." She said with a hint of glee. "You speak your mind and do it plainly, you have power over the forces that move this world yet choose not to use it. Your insufferably noble, it's quite endearing actually." Mephala admitted with a nod, moving to grasp his right hand again.

"But that nobility will be your undoing. You need my power here and now. With my help you could obliterate Ulfric and any who would dare stand against you." She offered, her voice turning as serious as her now stern expression.

"As for your question? Yes. I would take you as my lover for a time, and together we could be nigh unstoppable." She said with emotion, passion blazing in her chocolate brown eyes. Darion looked back to her angelic face, befuddled. How many could say that they attracted the private attention of a Daedric Prince after all?

Her mist wrapped arms snaked around his torso, pulling him closer, Darion didn't fight it.

"And? Do you accept my offer, oh champion mine?" Mephala asked with finality, staring into Darion's own eyes. The snow haired man nodded slowly, to which the Daedric Lord smiled widely.

"Yes. I accept your offer, my lady." Darion answered, as he spoke, the Daedric Prince brought his head down lower to meet her lips in a fiery kiss. As Mephala began to fight for dominance in their passionate embrace, Darion raised his left arm wordlessly.

Dropping the Ebony Blade into the dark waters below.

The blade fell quickly, clattering against the ships hull as it fell, the sound bringing Mephala out of her lust filled trance. Pulling away from the kiss, Mephala looked up to Darion's smirking face her eyes trailing over towards his outstretched arm and open hand.

Her chocolate brown eyes first went into shock but quickly shifted as her previously angelic face devolved into a frothing rage. Her left hand shot out, pushing the Archmage against the stern with an invisible force. Lifting him against the wooden wall, Mephala began to tighten her grip, trying to choke the life out of her traitorous champion.

His pale face began to turn blue, as he thrashed about, struggling against the Daedric Prince's power.

"YOU WOULD DARE BETRAY ME?!" She hissed, her rage fueled voice practically dripping with venom. "YOU'LL DIE FOR THIS, MORTAL!" Mephala shrieked, her hand balling into a fist to crush Darion's windpipe.

Mercifully, instead of tightening, her grip seemed to loosen gradually, much to the Prince's consternation. Her telekinetic grip falling away, Darion dropped back down onto the deck gasping for air.

Looking up from his kneeling position, he could see Mephala staring at her hands in disbelief. Her ethereal body starting to disassemble and fade away into nothing.

"You know, I did tell you right at the start that I would never be your champion, not now, not ever." He said, grinning widely at her look of utter hatred. Rising to stand, albeit shakily, he continued.

"I just needed you to be distracted long enough to toss the blade away and you'd disappear with it. Few hear your whispers anymore. You said so yourself years ago. Your shrines and where your artifacts go are the only places you can be in your full power." He explained smugly, the Prince's face contorting into a black rage, she screamed in anger.

The Daedric Prince lunged forward, punching Darion as hard as her remaining strength would let her just before her ephemeral body dissolved into the air completely.

Staggering back, he crashed against the wooden railing, laughing all the while as he stared up at the northern lights that blazed overhead. Ceasing his laughter, Darion reached up to touch the cheek Mephala had punched, the flesh feeling tender and beginning to bruise.

Looking upwards to the crows nest, he could see the lookout was fast asleep against the circular railing, his eyes trailing back down below to the wheel at the helm, he could see the navigator was also sawing logs still.

Darion laughed loudly at the absurdity of it all.

* * *

Snoring like a hibernating bear, Ralof could be found lying on a queen sized bed, naked as the day he was born. His legs hanging off the sides and poking out from beneath the animal hides, totally oblivious to the rest of the living world.

Until he caught a boot in the face, that is.

Shouting in pain, the Harbinger sat upright slowly his eyes bleary and hand clutching his sore nose. Cracking a single blue eye open to see Aela's smug grin, the fiery redhead standing a few feet from the bed half dressed.

The memories seemed to come back to him in a blinding rush, setting sail from Winterhold, docking at Roscrea and the subsequent celebration that followed, and then THAT happened. His mind going blank on how they had even got to this point.

He didn't think he had drank that much mead last night, and he was fairly certain Aela hadn't drank that much either. Even if she had, bearers of the beast blood tended to have a much higher metabolism and alcohol tolerance, he knew. Scenes of the drinking competitions between Skjor and Farkas in Jorvasskr racing through his hazy mind.

"I know I didn't hit you that hard. So I guess you really are a lightweight then. Pathetic." She taunted, sliding a sheep wool shirt over her head as she spoke. Ralof glared out at her through his hand with his one good eye.

"That's a load of shit and you know it." He cursed, moving his hand down from his red nose and slowly opening his other eye. His senses focusing sharply, Ralof had to fight back the urge to wince as a searing migraine made its presence known.

Groaning, he swung his legs off the straw and hide covered bed. "What time is it anyway?" He asked groggily. Looking towards the other Companion he could see her shrug in response.

"Don't know exactly. But the crew has been running around in a hurry for close to an hour now." She replied, pulling on her boots swiftly. "Might be that were getting close to land. Roscrea's not that far from Atmora after all." Aela stated.

Atmora, their ancient homeland, lost to the encroaching ice and harsh winter snows. Ysgramor and his five hundred were some of the last to migrate from Atmora to Skyrim. Not counting Talos of course. He would be the first Harbinger to set foot on Atmoran soil in thousands of years . . .

The very thought unnerved Ralof, a slight shiver going down his spine.

'I wonder what Kodlak would think of all this?' He wondered. The old man would probably either have some grand speech ready for the very moment his boots touched the dirt, or at least some philosophical quote to recite, at any rate. The old Harbinger would have loved to go on this expedition were he still amongst the living.

Sighing slightly, Ralof threw back the hide covers reaching down to the dark floor to collect his misbegotten clothes. Standing up, he slid his black trousers back on, looking up just in time to catch a fur lined shirt thrown his way.

Smiling at Aela's slight pout, he wiggled his index finger at her. "That won't work on me twice." He gloated.

Aela huffed in response, though she too had a small smile across her wild face. Strapping her quiver and bow to her back, she addressed him.

"I'm going above deck to see what's going on. You should hurry up, you don't want to miss the show do you?" She asked slyly, already moving to exit the cabin door, her hips swaying as she walked.

Unable to look away, Ralof shook his head once Aela closed the heavy door, leaving him alone in the dimly lit cabin room.

'No better sight than a woman walking away.' He thought lecherously, moving across the room to gather the rest of his clothing and armor.

Picking up the Skyforged wolf cuirass, Ralof couldn't help but wonder why anything had happened between them at all. To his knowledge Aela had never held any interest in him personally, not even after the old wolf, Skjor, died. Though that had been a little over a year ago by now, he thought.

Maybe she was finally moving on? He banished the thought as quickly as it came, sliding the cuirass over his head and strapping it into place.

No, this was more than likely a one night stand, he knew.

'Best just leave it at that and spare ourselves the awkward tension.' Ralof thought somberly as he strapped on his steel plated gauntlets.

'Unless she pushes for more that is.' He thought perversely, standing up after pulling on his boots, Ralof strode across the dark room to gather his shield. Ysgramor's shield, he corrected, and the reforged draugur arming sword, its pearly white blade gleaming in the dim light.

Moving the shield to his back and sheathing the blade at his left hip, Ralof made his way out of the cabin door and began walking down the narrow corridors of the ships interior. The blonde haired man having to stop occasionally for the frequent mix of sailors and guardsmen that seemed to run to and fro like a swarm of busy bees.

Back in Winterhold, when discussing their contract, Darion had been less than pleased at the lack of numbers in Ralof's traveling party. He frowned slightly at the memory.

When Ralof had asked why he was upset, Darion had merely waved his question away saying that he hadn't wanted to leave Winterhold without competent guards or mages even if it cost a quarter of his overflowing treasury to do so. A skeleton crew of sailors had been hired for the smooth running of the ship of course, a couple dozen guards and even a few mages had been brought along on the journey.

The trip itself having lasted close to a week just to reach Roscrea's frozen shores. Ralof supposed he couldn't blame the crew if they were starting to get a little stir crazy with cabin fever. Holding his hand above his head to block out the bright light Ralof climbed the steps to the deck.

His eyes adjusting to the bright light, he looked off towards the starboard side of the long ship to see the looming mess of stone structures in the distance.

Jylkurfyk. The last great port city of the Atmorans. The very same city that Ysgramor himself had left behind in his war of vengeance against the snow elves in Skyrim, and now here he was, going back to the place where their order had begun all those years ago.

His eyes glued to the massive ancient city, Ralof walked towards the railing wordlessly, his mouth agape.

"Quite a sight for a few thousand year old city, no?" A glib voice chimed in. Snapping out of his apparent stupor to see Darion's grinning form. The young Dragonborn was dressed in all his finery, the armor he had crafted before their departure shining brightly in the sunlight.

"Aye, she is indeed." He agreed quietly, his electric blue eyes moving back to gaze upon the forgotten metropolis. "To think it was here that the Companions were formed by Ysgramor all those centuries ago." Ralof marveled, his voice speaking the ancient leaders name in reverence.

"To return to Skyrim and seek vengeance against the snow elves for the sacking of Saarthal. The event coming to be known as the Night of Tears centuries later. Or so the story goes." Darion added. The white haired man turned his back towards the city to sit on the railing lazily.

"I suppose this must be like a sort of pilgrimage for you and Aela." He said calmly, his face frowning as Ralof only nodded his head numbly in response.

"Hey. Ralof, come on. Pay attention." He ordered, snapping his fingers in front of Ralof's face. The loud crack of his steel clad finger against his plated palm garnering his attention immediately.

Looking back towards Darion's now stern face, he bowed his head slightly in apology. The young Jarl's face only hardened further, but nodded in acceptance.

"I need you to listen to me, and listen closely. Cause gods know Aela won't take a word I say seriously." He said, his tone serious. Darion had his full, undivided attention now.

Darion's eyes looked away from his, the other man nodding his head back toward the ice bound landscape. "Just before yours and Aela's arrival at Winterhold I went and scoured the Colleges Arcaneum and I can safely say that I have no idea what were going to find on those shores."

The Harbinger of the Companions shrugged his shoulders. "A few abandoned cities, some frozen nords and endless snow for miles and miles around." He joked, dismissing his friends cautionary words.

"Ralof, the last word we got from Atmora was a ship piled full of corpses." Darion said, his voice grave as his tone deepened. A ship full of bodies? That was new, and worrisome to boot.

"And you read this in the Arcaneum?" Ralof asked, his tone now serious. Darion nodded once before continuing.

"Yes."

"Do we have any idea what could have happened? War? A bout of famine or a plague?" Ralof asked, now concerned as his eyes glanced back to the abandoned continent briefly before returning to Darion.

"I have a few chief suspects, but none of them are good." He said gravely, holding his steel plated fist up he raised his index finger.

"One, the remaining Atmoran's fought each other over dwindling resources as the continent froze over." He stated, raising a second finger right after.

"Two, they were invaded by a hostile, foreign power. Who could have invaded a land this far north, I have no idea. The only possible race that could have dealt with the lands worsening conditions would be the Kamal of Akavir. They only unfreeze once every few years to invade other lands anyway and who knows? Maybe they wanted a change of scenery and decided to pay Atmora a visit?"

That was new to him as well, having never been a learned man seemed to have its drawbacks on occasion. Ralof had knew that Akavir had existed, yes, but not anything pertaining to the actual races that inhabited the foreign land.

"Their name means 'snow demons' right?" He asked for confirmation. Darion nodded quickly. "They already have to unfreeze to invade others, so maybe they invaded and began to freeze the land over."

His friend tilted his head to the side, seemingly processing his words. "Aye, that would explain the sudden drop in temperature out here. But there's still something that's bugging me . . ."

"What?"

"All the bodies found on the ship still had weapons in their hands, for one. That, and some of the corpses seemed to be dead far longer than the others had been. And every corpse on the ship had ice blue eyes as well." Darion told ominously, his hand raising a third and final finger.

"To me, everything points towards a necromancer, a powerful one at that. Whoever it was probably sent those corpses to Skyrim's shores as his own undead fighting force but lost his connection with their bodies just before they made landfall. Explaining why they were inanimate at the time and armed. But not the weather though." He theorized quietly.

Darion's eyes looked around the now populated deck quickly trying to discern if anyone was eavesdropping on them. Finding Aela standing up towards the bow of the ship, he motioned for Ralof to lean a little closer.

"Most of the reports of the incident were very vague and speculatory at best. The only solid one, which I just told you, came from Shalidor himself thousands of years ago." He informed, the Archmage's voice very nearly a whisper.

Ralof's eyes went wide open at that particular nugget of information. "S-Shalidor? As in the THE Shalidor?! The first Archmage and creator of Labyrinthian?" Ralof asked, his voice seeming to raise in pitch slightly.

The snow haired man frowned slightly as he gestured for him to lower his voice back down. "The very same." Darion confirmed.

"That report of his was written down in one of his many books called, Shalidor's Insights. The thing that worries me though, is that Archmage Shalidor as we know him was one of the most arrogant and powerful mages to ever live in Tamriel," He told, his friends voice growing quieter as he spoke.

"And he never wrote about it ever again. Not once. Whatever was on Atmora back then was something that Shalidor did not want to tangle with, and because it was likely a necromancer that commanded those bodies, whomever and whatever it was is very likely to be still be alive somewhere out there."

Ralof took a step back from the wooden railing. This was getting to be a bit too much for him to process. Their ancient homeland was invaded? And either by an army of Kamal from Akavir or worse yet, a previously unknown but extraordinarily powerful necromancer? The blonde haired nord shook his head violently, trying to shake the cobwebs loose in his mind.

"You knew about this?" He asked questioningly, his hand pointing towards Darion's sitting form atop the railing. The Archmage nodded slowly in response.

Ralof groaned in annoyance at his answer, his gloved hands rubbing his face roughly. Stopping the motion and looking back towards Darion with a straight face, Ralof had to fight back the urge to just shove Darion overboard and into the icy water.

'Even if I did push him over, he could pull me overboard as well with that glowing-trick of his.' He thought in annoyance, recalling Darion's display of his magical prowess the day he and Aela arrived at Winterhold.

'And I really don't fancy getting wet right now.' Ralof groaned mentally. Sighing heavily, the Harbinger looked the Jarl of Winterhold in the eyes.

"Why? Why didn't you tell us about this when we discussed the contract? Your aware that this will double our price's for this little trip of yours?" Ralof asked, his voice as hard and unflinching as stone.

Darion nodded slowly again, but didn't avert his gaze. "Aye, I know it will. In all reality I wouldn't be going on this expedition if Ulfric hadn't ordered it." He confessed, much to the Harbingers bewilderment.

"So now this is a royal expedition? For what reason would High King Ulfric order this mission? If this is political in any way . . ." He trailed off, his tone borderline mutinous.

"Yeah, I know, the Companions never take sides in anyone's political agenda's. It's one of the reasons your order is still around after all." Darion acquiesced, his arm waving off Ralof's accusing words nonchalantly.

"I never told you the real reason for why I wanted to go to Atmora, and I'm sorry about that, truly." He apologized sincerely. "But the real reason for why is because I was forced too. I believe Ulfric wants me gone, Ralof." Darion said sadly.

The Harbinger's blue eyes hardened at his friends words, his beast blood beginning to boil and simmer along with his increasing ire just beneath the surface.

"And just why would the High King want you gone?!" Ralof shouted angrily, his voice deepening with each word he spat out. "You have fought at his side for years now, served as one of his Jarls, saved his country from annihilation at the hands of Alduin, you even pledged him an oath of fealty for Talos' sake!"

Ralof cut his rightcheous rant short however, spotting a sickly green light emanating from Darion's left hand held just behind his back. Looking around alarmed, he quickly realized why it was so quiet around them both. It wasn't because of his shouting but instead because of Darion's magic manipulating the sound around them, silencing it almost completely.

Snarling angrily, Ralof grasped Darion's plated forearm roughly, hauling the 'sly' Archmage to his feet violently.

"You would hide your mistakes from your own men?" He said quietly, his voice deep and words dangerous as he spoke. "How cowardly of you, Darion. I expected better from you." Ralof hissed with venom.

To his credit, Darion's eyes never wavered from Ralof's withering glare, his face as passive as a rock sitting on the side of a road, while Ralof's own looked ready and willing to eviscerate him completely.

Feeling a hand slap into his Skyforged cuirass, Ralof's electric blue eyes glanced down to see Darion's right hand gripping a folded letter firmly. Taking his free hand and taking the folded parchment from the Jarl's hand none to gently, he glanced back up to Darion's sea green eyes.

"Read it. And be quick about it, we'll be ashore in ten minutes."

Ripping his arm free from the Harbinger's grasp, Darion walked away from the railing at a brisk pace, heading back towards the helm of the ship.

Ralof's eyes watched him walk away briefly until he was out of sight. Looking downward to the crumpled paper in his hands, he could see the remains of a snarling bear sigil in blue wax.

* * *

**Oooooohh my, I hope I wrote that decently enough for your likings, I appear to be trying out a multitude of things so far. Last chapter was my very first fight scenes, this chapter was my first attempts at writing one character trying to seduce another.**

**Speaking of which, Mephala didn't really want Darion as a lover, but instead as a tool for her to use. Promises of power, wealth, and fame had failed and what remained? Seduction was her only route left, and that enabled Mephsla to use Darion's pitiful love life against himself.**

**Just wanted to clear that bit up just in case.**

**And then we come to the morning after bit with Ralof and Aela, never wrote anything like it till now. Never even experienced any of THOSE situations to tell ya the truth.**

**Aaaaaaahhh, I'm boring ya while my tongue's wagging. Feel free to review if you feel like it! But be ready cause we got Atmora next chapter!**

**See you then!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Alright, yeah I've kinda been gone for a bit longer than usual. But I kinda hit a mental block on this story on how to write everything contained within. Finally got around to finishing it up after a few weeks. You could call it a late Halloween gift I guess.**

**Anyway, I might have mucked it up a bit on some things here and there, but I've read over it as many times as I can and tried my best to flesh it out as much as I can currently. Your turn to judge and decide I suppose!**

**Ooooooohhh, and by the way, thanks for those of you that reviewed last chapter! It's nice hearing what you guys think, be it positive or negative!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or content from Game of Thrones or The Elder Scrolls Series.**

* * *

Chapter 4: Arrogance

It was cold here, far too cold even for a race as hardy as the nords, Darion decided. Watching his breath turn to steam in the frigid atmoran air. The Star's enchantments were doing it's jobs wonderfully, but seemed to be reaching their limits as he sat exposed to the sub-zero temperatures.

Rubbing his hands together, he held the plated phalanges out closer to the hungry flames, the campfires heat rejuvenating in its warm glow.

There was just something about this land, about Atmora itself, that seemed to radiate these unlivable temperatures. It was unnatural. Even with the use of powerful enchanting magics, Darion was starting to feel the sting of the icy winds that blew across the snowy wasteland.

His men were fairing even worse, he knew, thinking back to just a few days prior when the first of the expedition succumbed to the cold. The first to go had been one of the Colleges new apprentices, a dark elf by the name of Raelyn. The next was one of the guardsmen, a nord named Hrothlund, a man belonging to a race highly resistant to wintery conditions and equipped with enchanted gear built to handle weather yet unheard of; froze to death in his fur tent just last night. The man's body as blue as the sea and body rigid like stone come the morning.

'A scary thought to think of. How much longer can we hope to last out here?' Darion wondered. His eyes closing as he inhaled the scent of smoke and burning pinewood.

Upon docking at the abandoned port city of Jylkurfyk, he had dispatched a few scouting parties to search the ruins of the once great metropolis for any signs of life or danger to themselves. For three days straight, each scouting party had returned from a new section of the city spinning the same tale in their reports.

Tales of great stone houses collapsed and fallen into ruination, of empty storehouses and granaries, of massive long ships beached and broken against the frozen shoreline. Worse yet, of the corpses that dotted almost every corner of Jylkurfyk, their bodies standing frozen in place as though they had waited a millennia and simply let the land freeze their bodies over solid.

His first thought had been of the Kamal of Akavir, the snow-demons that hibernate in the ice, perhaps they truly had invaded Atmora on a whim centuries ago. But upon closer inspection from himself and a few other mages the icy bodies were identified to be atmorans. The proud precursor race to the nordic people entombed in ice for all eternity.

His sea green eyes cracking open slightly, he stared into the orange flames watching as they licked at the last log in the pit.

There was no necromancer to be found, no fix for the climate to be had, no food to scavenge from the land save their own ships salted meats, and morale was flagging lower and lower as the days rolled by. If nothing was done, and soon, the crew may very well decide to mutiny and abscond with the ship. Stranding himself and whomever was still loyal on the inhospitable continent.

Glancing up from the fire he could see a few of the other guards whispering amongst themselves at their own campfire a few tents down from his own.

'Survival. Most will do anything to continue this. Some more than others. The price a person is willing to pay varies from person to person but it almost always ends nastily.' He quoted mentally.

His mind recalling a line written by Shalidor in one of his many books. That one in particular speaking about the first Archmages personal thoughts on the psychology of the races. Scarily enough, his words had held true thus far and Darion had no surefire reason to believe they would be disproven any time soon here at the ass-end of the world.

Or worse, if Mephala turned out to be right about Ralof in the end. Daedric Princes were very rarely wrong about anything, especially if that thing pertained to their own sphere of influence after all.

'I guess I'll have my answer sooner or later. Especially with how things have been going so far.' He thought grimly.

"Archmage." A voice called out behind him. Broken out of his reverie, Darion turned his head slightly to regard the scrawny mage that addressed him. Sten, if he remembered correctly. One of Raelyn's fellow apprentices. The paper-thin nord having joined the College only a few months prior.

"Yes? What is it?"

"The Harbinger's scouting party has found something that he feels you should investigate." Sten informed. His gaunt face smiling widely in what seemed to be excitement, his frail body looked near ready to start skipping about in joy.

Lone eyebrow raising, Darion pulled his hands away from the flames, reaching down to his side to grasp Volendrung's long shaft. Any news at all was welcome at this point. Even bad news. Anything to break up this monotonous cycle of freezing and thawing in the winter winds.

"Lead the way, boney." He joked, standing from his stone seat swiftly whilst grinning widely

* * *

Leaning against the icy wall lazily, Ralof could be found listening to his teams banter casually. Occasionally one guard would ask a few questions about what the other had found but the same answer would almost always be given. Then they would shrug and go back to complaining about the cold.

But not this time.

"That can't have been natural, no sane man would treat his fellows like that." One of the guards spoke, his tone fearful. Another nodded his head quickly in response, Jorn, his name was.

"Not even an elf could be that viscous to their enemy."

"Then what could? We've been searching this arctic hellscape for days now and there's been nothing except frozen corpses." The third guard said, his voice sounding slightly worried to Ralof's ears.

"Don't know Dernim, but whatever ripped those poor bastards apart can't possibly be alive right now." Jorn said reassuringly, his fur-gloved hand clasping Dernim's shoulder.

Ralof had to fight the urge to snort at Jorn's words and call him a fool, ignorance or no not withstanding. There was no possible way they could have known of the dangers that lurked behind every corner of the decrepit city.

'Ignorance is bliss, or so they say.' He thought quietly, his eyes turning away to look towards the ancient mead hall they had camped beside. Just the knowledge of the frozen continent being invaded by a hostile power was enough to set Ralof on edge upon making landfall on Atmora.

But the seeing the evidence itself first hand? It was a uniquely disturbing experience.

For three days straight himself and Aela had been leading small exploratory teams throughout the abandoned port city. The Companions presence among the men helping to bolster the collective morale as they trudged on through the snowy wastes. Spirits were soaring on high for a bit until they found the first of the cadavers.

Atmoran men, women, even a few children could be found standing stock still in place, rooted to the ground by their own icy tombs. Shor's beard, half of them were still clutching ancient weaponry in their decaying hands and a select few corpses could be found still wearing thick iron armor and furs. It was all too eerie, and the men's behavior showed it.

If the guards were jumpy around frozen corpses, then they were practically hysterical after finding the bodies of their ancestors torn asunder and spread apart to form a grisly symbol inside the dilapidated mead hall.

"What about you Harbinger? What do you make of this?" Dernim asked, his voice still wavering slightly.

Broken out of his quiet musings, Ralof's eyes turned back from the mead hall and towards his men, regarding them with a critical eye.

"Whatever happened here happened thousands of years ago and will have no effect on us here and now. I would suggest you lot start acting like it." Ralof barked out, his words harsh and cracking like a whip.

Seeing Dernim and Jorn visibly recoil at his words made Ralof wince slightly. Gods, he hated having to lie, even more so to people under his command. But if they knew the truth then Talos only knows what would happen. The men were already panicked with their own suspicions and to confirm even a few would likely start a revolt against himself, Aela, and Darion.

He hadn't even tried to tell her about his and Darion's talk aboard the Dainty Sload. If he had, then the hot blooded woman would have very likely questioned Darion publically either in camp or out in the city. Much as it pained him to try and keep secrets from those he cherished, it was for her own good. The last thing they needed was any infighting right now.

But Darion?

Ralof struggled not to frown at the thought of his 'friends' name. Why was he even helping him at this point? The Archmage had lied to him and Aela about this expedition right from the start, all the way back to when they had been sitting comfortably in Jorvasskr drinking mead and warming by its fires. Darion even had the nerve to think that Ulfric would dare turn against himself.

Why? He had no earthly idea, Ralof had read the royal missive and in it the orders the parchment had contained. They were strict, yes, but in the end they sounded doable. If only barely.

'Didn't Talos reshape Cyrodiil from a jungle using the thu'um?' He recalled albeit hazily. The smaller, more intricate details escaping his clouded mind. Perhaps Ulfric had wanted Darion to do the same with Atmora?

Perhaps he couldn't do it and Ulfric hadn't known that Darion wouldn't be able to succeed? Maybe, but then why would he threaten to seize his lands and income?

Ralof sighed inwardly, his head was starting to spin from all the possibilities and not all of them good. Ulfric had been the Jarl whose blade he had sworn too back in the war for Skyrim's independence and the one he had looked towards for leadership and guidance in those dark days. The High King had always been honorable to his knowledge and true to his word. Yet, Ralof couldn't seem to marry the letters meaning to Ulfric's usual persona.

It just didn't make sense. None of it did. Long as he could remember Darion had been on civil terms with the Jarl of Windhelm. Give or take a few arguments here and there on politics or war strategies of course. But there had never been any animosity between the two before they took Solitude. So why the sudden change?

He would have to make a little journey back down to Windhelm after dealing with this frozen mess it seemed, but for now, he would complete his contract with the Jarl of Winterhold if only to serve his king, albeit in a roundabout fashion. Perhaps Ulfric would listen to one of his old, personal guards? Only time would tell.

Electric blue eyes softening slightly, he addressed the trio of guards. "But keep your weapons at the ready, never know when we might find a troll out in this barren wasteland." Ralof joked.

Smiling slightly, he leaned further against the crumbling stones as the men laughed slightly. Hearing the sound of snow being crunched underfoot, Ralof craned his neck over to see the approaching persons.

"Ah! Harbinger! There you are, I delivered the Archmage just as ordered!" The scrawny twig of man, Sten, said chirpily. The man practically skipping as he strode across the flattened snow. Following close behind, he could see Darion' eyebrows raise in question wordlessly.

"Delivered me? What am I, a barrel of cabbages?" He joked lightly, his sea green eyes turning to look towards Ralof.

"You might as well be, having taken so long to get here." Ralof retorted. If the Jarl was fazed, he didn't seem to show it.

"And just what did you want me to take a look at anyways?" He asked, walking past Ralof and towards one of the encased atmorans. Darion cocked his head to the side slightly, tapping a steel plated finger against the icy tomb absentmindedly.

"I mean, these were the last interesting things found so far out here. After all, who in their right mind would stand out in this cold just to freeze to death?" The Jarl wondered morbidly.

Rolling his eyes in annoyance, Ralof pushed off of the crumbling stone wall. "And who in their right mind would rip these poor sods limb from limb?" He responded, gesturing up the snowy steps and towards the open doors of the hall.

Darion ceased his tapping momentarily, looking back towards him quizzically. "Lots of things actually. Trolls, giants, undead, daedra, dragons, the dreugh's out in Morrowind, and any man or mer psychotic and strong enough to do so." He listed, resuming his tapping.

"And which of those would arrange them in spiral-shaped pattern?"

Ralof watched as the Archmages movement halted, the sudden tension in his shoulders almost unnoticeable to the untrained eye. Taking a deep breath, the younger man spoke up.

"Show me."

Nodding with the brief command, Ralof walked past the Jarl heading up the snow-filled steps with Darion, Jorn, Dernim, and the other guardsman following behind silently. Climbing the last step, the Harbinger pushed one of the ancient doors open, the wood and ice cracking loudly as it swung open slowly.

Holding the door, Ralof lifted his hand to point towards the grisly assortment of frozen and decaying limbs, heads, and bisected bodies.

"We found them like this a little over an hour ago. Jorn here was the first to see it. In all my time here on Nirn, I've never seen anything like this before." He said quietly, his eyes roaming around the halls horrific central symbol, the up-turned chairs and tables, the long fire pits meant for cooking, drinking, and making merry filled with a mix of snow, ash, and dried viscera some few thousand years old.

"Its amazing that none of these bodies have decayed fully yet. Even after all this time . . ." He wondered aloud, much to the Harbinger's chagrin.

"Darion."

"Yes, yes, I know. Morbid fascination again." He said, waving Ralof's words away casually with a roll of his eyes. "And what of Aela and her team? They find anything else?" Darion asked stepping forward to examine one of the bodies, dried blood splattered along the cadaver itself and underneath to form a rough, jagged line to the next body.

"Right here. Just got finished scouting out the surrounding area." The other Companion announced, striding into the hall bow in hand and with her own trio of guards at her back.

"And? Anything else beyond this that I need to be aware of?" Darion asked calmly, his hand tracing the bloody pattern and eyes following the spiral inwards.

"Nothing else around except for this strange humming noise coming from the center. Neither me, or Ralof could figure it out." The huntress explained, pointing the tip of her recurve bow towards the center of the circular symbol that lay between the pits.

Eyes flitting upwards briefly looking towards the middle, Darion rose and walked forward cautiously, straining not to trip over any offending limbs. Clapping Aela on the shoulder, the Harbinger followed after the Archmage.

Darion came to a halt suddenly, his form rigid and unmoving as he stared into the open air. The Jarls hand lifted up to chest level with a ball of magical light clutched in his limp grasp. Stopping just to the snow-haired mans side, Ralof's eyes widened at the sight.

Sickly green energy split through the open air, twisting and turning slowly like a writhing tentacle. The lime green light becoming brighter as it seemed to feed off of the Archmage's spell. The deep baritone humming noise growing ever so slightly louder as the tear brightened, the sound guttural in nature.

"Ralof?"

"Yeah?"

"Remember our talk about what we might find here?" Darion asked, his voice lowered into an almost inaudible whisper. The Harbinger nodded his head slowly in response, his own face still slack-jawed as he gazed into the tear.

"Let's just say that I was wrong entirely. The energy coming from this portal? That's magical energy from Oblivion, more specifically, energy from a Daedric Prince's realm." He explained, his voice sounding as worried as his facial expression looked.

"Whose?"

"Hermaeus Mora's. But what's strange is that it doesn't appear to lead straight to Apocrypha itself. Instead, it seems to go somewhere else entirely." Darion speculated quietly, trying to keep his voice low so as to not panic the gathered men. Aela would take it in stride, Sten would grin and ask to study it, but the guards? Ralof didn't have the foggiest notion how they would react.

'Where is that scrawny mage anyway?' He wondered, looking around briefly whilst tuning out his friends continuous chatter.

Frowning upon not finding the gaunt man, Ralof turned his head back to the tear only to hear a loud whirring sound coming from the right side of the hall.

Acting quickly, the Harbinger grasped Darion by the scruff of his collar roughly, yanking them both down to the stone floor as a bolt of light shot overhead. Looking back towards the source of the energy, he could see Sten standing beside a break in the stone wall, his hand outstretched and a malicious smile upon his lips.

"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS, STEN!?" Ralof roared.

The traitorous mage only seemed to smile ever wider. "What I was meant too, dear Harbinger!" He chirped happily lowering his arm down slowly to rest at his side.

"My lord will be pleased with my success! Especially with the elimination of the Archmage!" Sten crowed.

Standing swiftly to the sound of swords being drawn, Ralof could have sworn he heard Darion curse under his breath as he too drew his sword and shield.

"Your master, it's Hermaeus Mora, isn't it?"

Sten appeared shocked, however briefly, before he smiled widely again as looked past himself and towards the Dragonborn.

"Oooohh! Quite astute you are, Archmage! Just like my lord said you would be!" The turncoat answered. His crazed eyes seemed to twinkle with a tinge of madness as he spoke.

"Heh, I would appreciate the praise, but only if I had noticed the connections sooner." Darion joked, his voice beginning to harden.

Blue eyes glancing around, Ralof could see that the other six guardsmen had gathered closer and crowded around himself and the Jarl whilst Aela was towards the back of the room with an arrow nocked and ready to loose. Looking back towards his teams former mage, Ralof's eyes narrowed. One way or another Sten wouldn't leave this hall alive.

"Followers of old Herma-Mora usually act mentally ill and tend to starve themselves to near death in their pursuit of knowledge inside the halls of Apocrypha. Not to mention, that you joined the College barely a month before the Companions arrived in Winterhold. I'd wager Hermaeus knew about this whole ordeal before it even happened and sent you to act in his stead. I don't know how I didn't see it sooner." Darion admitted aloud.

"But tell me, Sten, if that's even your real name, what does that ugly mess of tentacles want with me?" He asked calmly, his right hand reaching up to unclasp Volendrung from his leather strap as he pushed past Ralof.

Sten giggled madly at the question. "You should know, Dragonborn! You spurned my master after he helped you defeat Miraak. You were meant to replace him in the end but you took away his favorite toy instead! Did you think my lord wouldn't respond in kind?" The thin man asked rhetorically, his head turning slightly as he peered down at them all.

"As per my lords instructions, if he cannot have a toy of the dragon blood, then NO ONE WILL." The traitor said ominously. Right at that moment a noise brought Ralof's attention back to the sickly green tear behind the assembled bodies.

The tear in the air was opening slowly, a golden light pouring through as writhing, black tentacles lashed out from its jagged edges. A burst of the frigid air coming through the opening portal causing himself to shiver slightly.

"You shall die here in your forefathers homeland, far from help or home as you will be torn asunder by the forces my master unleashed upon Atmora centuries ago!" The now laughing mage said jubilantly. His grin nearly splitting his face into two.

"And in turn, I will be given all the power and knowledge I could ever ask for! I wonder what will happen to Winterhold once I return? My lord isn't known for his mercy after all." He paused with his hand tapping his chin whilst humming mockingly.

"You won't have to wonder much longer." Darion snarled, his left hand shooting outwards as that same rust colored light arced across his palm. Sten shrieked in alarm as his body moved against his own will, being pulled suddenly and violently towards the Archmage.

Dropping his hand to grip back onto his hammer, Darion swung in a wide arc, the thirty pound head landing upon the traitorous mages' lower jaw, decapitating him viciously in a brief shower of blood and viscera.

Scowling as the headless body landed with a thud, Darion spun around quickly, a bolt of fire shooting from his left hand and towards a now relaxed Aela.

Ralof's eyes widened significantly as he followed the bolt's path, watching as it passed over Aela's shoulder and striking an icy figure squarely in the chest. The creature screaming and clawing at it's own decaying flesh as it burned away to ash.

As Aela hurried away from the writhing corpse, the Harbinger inspected the burning cadaver briefly.

"The atmorans." Ralof croaked out in a whisper. His blue eyes near panicked upon recognizing the ancient style of dress and the ice that still clung to its burning form.

Ears twitching at the sudden sounds of shifting cloth, cracking ice and unnatural howls that surrounded the chamber, Ralof shook his head quickly, clashing his skyforged sword against Ysgramor's shield, gaining the surrounding peoples attention quickly.

"QUICKLY! FORM UP ON ME! GUARDS! FORM A SHIELD WALL OUT FRONT AND SWORDS AT THE READY!" He barked out, his voice echoing across the hall. Not having to be told twice, the guards raced over to the back of the hall and upon a raised stone platform. Interlocking their shields as they stood in formation at the top of the steps, Jorn and Dernim among them, waiting with bated breath.

Falling behind the shield wall, Aela drew her bowstring taut, a skyforge tipped arrow nocked and ready. Looking back towards his friend, Ralof found Darion using that same strange spell of his, moving a number of the dilapidated chairs and tables into makeshift barricades across the hall. The ancient wooden furniture blocking the breach in the crumbling wall and the entryway they had used earlier.

The Archmage's brow was furrowed in concentration as he shifted some of the loose stone slabs towards the front of the shield wall, his outstretched arms beginning to shake from the spells magical drainage.

Looking back out front to the ice encrusted doors the group had walked through mere moments earlier, Ralof inhaled the frosty air as it stung his lungs internally, trying to calm himself as the inhuman shrieks and growls came closer.

"Steady! Steady now boys!" Ralof called out. The screams were louder now, rapid footsteps following along with them.

Raising his shield and sword to his chest, his breath halted as the screams faded away slowly along with the skittering of the deceased. His eyes narrowed as he held in his breath in anticipation, the Harbinger felt a sudden jolt of pain erupt in left calf.

Grunting, he fell to a knee, swinging his shield back instinctively towards the assailant. The iron clad shield ringing like a bell as it slapped the shrieking undead's head away, its hand still gripping the rusty dagger embedded in his leg.

Feeling a hand grip his shoulders and another pull the offending knife out caused Ralof to hiss in pain, even as he drank from the bottle pressed to his lips, the vile liquid forced into his mouth beginning to make the new wound sizzle and close quickly.

Bleary eyes glancing around the hall as the assortment of bodies and limbs seemed to come to life, shrieking and moving all on their own.

'What kind of demonic hell have we stepped into?' He wondered, his face horrified as the surrounding corpses screamed for blood.

"**Yol Toor!"**

A sudden ghout of flame spewing forth and across the room. The burst of fire burning the undead away and turning them to ash as they screamed, the very flame itself drying the ancient stone and causing it to turn black and crack apart.

Still dumbfounded at the fiery display, Ralof watched numbly as he was hauled up too his feet by a single person, glancing to his left towards Darion's grinning face.

"Figured you nords liked to die on their feet, eh?" He joked half-heartedly, the distant screams were even louder now as the owners crashed into the makeshift barricades like a black wave of dead flesh and iron.

Climbing through a gap in an old table with a shriek, the first of the undead raced towards them fearlessly. Catching an arrow in its fleshy eye socket as it ran, falling to ground lifelessly.

His senses returning to himself, Ralof readied himself again at the front of the line. Watching as one by one, the dead clawed their way through the barricades to rush the living, only to be cut down by either an arrow or a bolt of fire.

Until finally, the table buckled inwards and broke completely, the wave of undead racing towards them screaming for bloodshed.

"DEATH OR SOVNGARDE!" He cried out, his fellow nords giving their own war-cries in response as the chamber erupted into pure, unadulterated chaos.

The first of the dead crashing its skeletal body upon his shield heavily, Ralof pushed the corpse back with grunt thrusting his arming sword out into its ribcage, the eerie blue light leaving its eyes as the strange draugur died with a unearthly scream. Then it was onto the next, and the next after that.

A flurry of slashes and stabs being thrown back and forth as rusty axes and blades fell upon his ancient shield ineffectually. Their attempts useless in breaking past the Harbingers defenses. Cutting down another undead, Ralof whipped his head to the side as he heard one of the guards cry out in desperation.

Jorn was being overwhelmed. And quickly too. As Ralof moved to shove his newest opponent backwards he watched as his man-at-arms thrust his steel blade into the dead mans leather bound chest. The wight not caring in the slightest or showing an once of pain, it reared its sinewy arm back to bring its war-axe down on the guards head.

Slashing to his right quickly, the pearly white blade biting deeply into the corpses neck, it dropped to the stone floor with a shriek. Jorn nodded towards Ralof in gratitude, the guards eyes widening as he made to catch the skyforged dagger tossed his way. Barely catching the small blade, Jorn dropped his steel sword entirely, replacing it with the dagger.

Ralof grunted in pain as a mace blow struck against his turned back, the blow sending him staggering forwards slightly. Turning to block his assailant, the Harbinger watched as an arrow shaft sprouted from its bare chest suddenly, killing it.

Grunting, he crashed back into the incoming wave of dead, holding the line once more. These creatures were immune to normal steel it seemed. Only fire, magic, or skyforge steel was effective against these nightmarish things.

Hearing a cry out to his left, Ralof glanced quickly to the side only to see one of the men under his command, Dernim, be cut down by a dragur's battle-axe. The large bloody blade cleaving his man from collar-bone to pelvis.

Ralof didn't have much time to process the brief wave of guilt as he watched the undead soldier struggle to yank the axe out of his comrades body. It then howled in pain as Darion's war-hammer plowed into the cadaver's ribcage sending the dragur flying backwards into the next oncoming enemy.

The hole in the wall filled, he turned back to his own share of bodies that were grasping, slashing, and gnashing their teeth at him menacingly, not unlike a pack of feral wolves in their behavior.

"**Hun Kaal Zoor!"**

Darion's voice shouted out, the very air cracking like thunder in the stony chamber. There, appearing just behind the steadily failing shield wall, was a ghostly apparition of a one-eyed nordic man clad in ancient iron armor and an aged iron war-hammer strapped to his back.

The newcomer grinned widely. "Aahh! It feels good to fight upon Nirn's soil once again!" The ghostly man shouted out gleefully, already charging forward into the fray, his war-hammer crushing an undead woman into the stone slab's mercilessly.

"**Mid Vur Shaan!" **The newcomer screamed happily, his own thu'um resonating across the chamber loudly.

Ralof's eyes widened significantly as a red aura danced across his body and line of vision. Bashing his opponent backwards, the Companion's blade darted out like lightning and cutting through the dragur's midsection like it was butter.

'Those strange words just doubled, no, tripled our movement and attack speeds.' Ralof thought, the wave of realization dawning upon him quickly as he grinned wolfishly towards the shrieking dead.

"DRIVE THEM BACK TO WHENCE THEY CAME!" Ralof barked out, his sword slicing through the oncoming dead with ease. The remaining guards cheered in approval, their own weapons now alight with the energy of the strangers thu'um. There may have been fewer than when the assault had begun, but they were far from out of this fight just yet.

Thrusting the edge of his massive shield forward into a sprinting wight, it was sent sprawling onto the floor in a heap of red-stained bones and furs, its last sounds cut off by Ralof's boot as he crushed its skull beneath it. Stabbing downwards to be sure of its demise as another wave of fire burst forth overhead, frying the next wave of undead.

If Darion and his fellow Tongue kept this pace of shouts and fire up then they could very well make it through this, Ralof thought jubilantly. His electric blue eyes focusing in on his next target.

The Harbinger had to duck suddenly as a shower of splinters and broken wood sailed across the chamber and overhead. The decaying lumber bowling over one of Aela's guards and sending him forward and down into the growing pit of motionless bodies as the dragur chased down after his screaming form. Tearing the poor man apart in a flurry of inhuman growls and sickening gore.

Ralof frowned deeply at the mans last pain filled screams while he fought on. Their was nothing any of them could do to help him now.

What concerned him more now, however, was the new hole in the barricades that had been breached, out towards the left side of the hall back towards where Sten's headless body lay. Even amongst the deafening chaotic sounds of battle and shrieks he could hear the heavy breathing and roars of something gigantic on the other side of the stone wall. If they didn't end this, and soon, then whatever lay behind those crumbling walls would likely be the end of them all.

Stabbing forward into the mess of writhing bodies, Ralof glanced towards his left, noticing that in the flurry of carnage the other guardsmen were being overwhelmed steadily. Like before with Jorn, he watched as a war axe was embedded in a screaming dragur's chest. The corpse not caring in the slightest and still thrashing and grasping at the guard.

Simple steel wasn't going to cut it here. The strangers shout sped up their attacks, but the guards weapons were ineffectual to undead. Only himself, Aela, Darion and the ghostly man were able to kill these things. The nordic guard was ripped forward by the wight and into the gnashing crowd. His screams and pleas for help going unnoticed in the commotion as the hall shook again while the monstrous beast roared. Enough was enough, he had made up his mind.

'We need to get out of here. Fast.'

Kicking a screaming wight off of his blade, Ralof's eyes searched for the absentee Jarl. His friends form lost amongst the sea of bodies.

"**Fus Ro Da!" **He shouted, an ethereal torrent of blue energy ripping through the snarling mob, shattering those closest to himself apart into tiny pieces of blackened meat and shards of bone whilst the rest flew across the hall weightlessly.

'Right on time, as usual.'

"Darion!" He shouted, trying to Archmage's attention. The white haired man turned to focus on himself, his eyes wide and looking slightly crazed in bloodlust. A manic grin lighting his face as he spoke.

"What now Ralof?! I'm kind of busy over here!" He whined, spinning towards his blind side and slamming the daedric hammer into a wight's bare skull, the hard bone giving way like a thin sheet of paper under the pressure.

"We need to leave, now!"

Darion looked back towards the Harbinger stupidly, his face perplexed as he fired off a fire ball into a rushing corpse absentmindedly. The body still writhing as it burned to ash while he spoke.

"Why? Are you not having fun, Ralof?" He asked.

Fun? FUN? THIS WAS FUN TO HIM?! Ralof was shocked at the Jarls casual question, the man spoke as though he was talking about the weather and whether or not it would rain. People were dying for his expedition, for his fun, and he didn't care about that at all?!

Roaring in anger, the Harbinger brought his blade down through another wight, bisecting it viciously. Glancing back towards a still grinning Dragonborn, he snarled.

"WE ARE DYING FOR YOUR FUN, DAMN IT! AND YOU'LL DIE AS WELL IF THAT THING BREAKS THROUGH THE WALL!" Ralof shouted, now visibly enraged. He had half a mind to order his team and Aela's to form up on him and make a run for it, blood-crazed Dragonborn be damned.

"And? I say let them come! I'll crush them all by myself!" Darion boasted, laughing crazily as he brought Volendruung crashing through another undead soldier, the body splitting apart in a shower of blackened gore.

Just as he heard the words, Ralof turned back towards Aela and the others, his mouth open to shout at them to follow him and make a break for it along the fire pits. The wall gave suddenly, the loose, ancient stone-works falling apart and crashing to the ground whilst a massive giant pushed through the enlarged hole. The colossal beast already lumbering towards the shield wall, the furs wrapped across its body ragged and rotting with its skin.

It was now or never.

"MEN! FALL BACK! FALL BACK, ON ME!"

Jorn, Aela, and the last other three guards broke formation quickly forming a small circle around themselves as they moved away from the rampaging giant and along the decrepit walls.

Ralof could hear Darion's maniacal laughter echoing behind him where the shield wall had been mere moments before.

'Of course that crazy bastard would relish fighting an undead giant. Hope it rips him apart like Dernim was.' Ralof thought nastily, fighting back another wight while moving forward quickly. Thrusting forward into the creatures stomach, the Companion brought his blade above his head to slash another.

"Wait, Ralof! What about Darion?!" He heard Aela call out, shortly after he felt an arrow whiz past his left ear and pierce into an undead's skull.

Cutting down an unarmored wight with a grunt he noticed the bright red aura that coated his body begin to flicker and fade away. Ralof's eyes glanced back towards his 'friend'. He could see that Darion was still laughing as he swung that hammer of his. Smashing corpse after corpse apart into smithereens, and throwing small fireballs towards the giant, peppering it but not killing it. Meanwhile the ghostly stranger was nowhere to be seen, more than likely dead again courtesy of the giant.

"He dug his own grave. Now we let him lie in it." He said coldly, looking back towards the ice coated doors that stood splintered and agape at the end of the hall.

Stopping to push another strange dragur away and towards the side, the Harbinger of the Companions heard a low rumbling sound echo across the chamber. Looking backwards towards the center he could see that same sickly green portal from earlier, the golden light that poured through its gaping hole and the writhing black tendrils that grasped for purchase in the open air.

It was feeding.

The tear, previously being hardly big enough to fit even the smallest of bosmer, had grown to nearly thrice it's original size. Growing incessantly from the continued output of magical energies thrown about in the hall like a feast gone wrong. The jet-black, inky tentacles grasping onto the stone floors and walls now, pulling at them and destabilizing the area as the open portal expanded.

Ducking down, Ralof narrowly dodged the now soaring Jarl, his body landing just behind him against the wall with a heavy thud. Groaning, Darion sat up against the wall his hammer still grasped firmly in his right hand; ready to charge back into battle again as his shoulder blade popped back into place.

Shaking his head, Ralof turned away from the Dragonborn, making to try and exit through the doorway and follow after Jorn. Perhaps Darion could serve as a distraction while they all got away if he was still rearing to have another go at that giant. Or perhaps he would see sense and run?

Rust colored light dancing across his steel plated palm, Darion roared in anger, hurling a piece of a collapsed stone pillar towards the giant. The Archmage panting from the effort as the object flew through the air quickly, catching the giant in the chest, impaling it into the crumbling stone wall roughly. Its arms clutching it's own ribcage as it shrieked and groaned.

Or not.

"How's that you ugly bastard?" Darion gloated, still panting at the effort from expending so much magicka. The undead giant huffed, breathing heavily as it stood upright slowly, showing the pillar that had been embedded into its chest with what could barely pass for a mocking smile on its partially decayed face.

With nary a word, the unnatural giant pulled the pillar out of its ribcage, revealing the gaping hole left where the beasts black heart should have been. Taking the pillar in it's fleshy hands the giants eerie blue eyes gazed back at them.

"Oh Shit."

Acting quickly, Ralof grabbed Aela by her fiery red hair as she tried to run by through the open entrance, yanking her down to the cold stone floor with a startled yelp alongside himself. Just in the nick of time as the pillar crashed into the stone archway holding up the doorway, collapsing it and crushing the few remaining guards flat against the floor in a bloody mess.

The loose stones flying like shrapnel through the air, he clutched his eyes shut, hoping that they wouldn't be crushed. As stones flew and crashed across the hall, the very floor shook intensely. The daedric portal slowly pulling the building apart as it expanded in size. The wights screaming as the stones rained around them, crushing them at random as hazy dust filled and obscured the air.

Opening his eyes slowly, Ralof coughed as the dust cloud settled. Holding his sword in his shield hand limply, the Companion rose to his feet to stand beside a kneeling Darion.

"Congratulations! You've doomed us all." He snarled, spitting out a glob of bloody mucus out to the side. The Harbingers words looked to have an effect on the snow-haired man, his sea green eyes downcast in shame.

"You let your power go to your head and it has cost us our lives. Tell me, old friend, is that something you can live with?" Ralof asked. Glaring at the arrogant Archmage with barely contained rage while the shrieks and skittering of the undead sounded around them. Searching for them and seeking to spill their blood yet again.

Even through the cloud of dust, Ralof could hear the bellow of the undead behemoth, bellowing for slaughter across the mead hall. Hearing a small rustle next to his feet, he turned his head to regard the now sitting huntress, whom swayed back and forth groggily, likely due to a concussion. Given that her hair was frayed and scalp was bleeding freely.

"I led a great many men to their deaths today. Even caused some of them because of my own pride." Darion admitted, his voice forlorn and tone depressed as he stood upright. Feeling a hand clasp onto his shoulder, Ralof turned back to look at the last Dragonborn.

"But not yours. Not today at least." The Archmage said with a sad smile.

Before Ralof could open his mouth to retort, he felt an invisible force hurl him forwards, past the shrieking atmorans and the lone giant, and into the golden light of Hermaeus Mora's portal.

* * *

**Aaaannnd there it is, still not too sure how I feel about this chapter, but I tried the best I could on it I guess. Sooooo, a little bit of explaining I suppose.**

**First up, skyforged steel working against wights. As far as I know beyond just being magically forged and just 'holding tighter' I don't really know that much about the stuff. Just kinda figured it would work just as well as Valyrian steel against normal wights.**

**Same thing with Volendruung. The hammer itself has immense power, but none of it is geared towards specifically killing the undead like Meridia's Dawnbreaker is. But the hammer itself belongs to a Daedric Lord of all people, thus I would assume it could work against standard wights as well.**

**The whole bit with Sten? I tried to make it seem like he had a few screws loose from the get go though I don't rightly know how it came off. Terribly I expect.**

**Aside from all that, this was by far the largest 'fighting scene' I have ever written thus far. It may very well be rubbish, but the least I can say is that I tried my best.**

**Would be very grateful if anyone could give some pointers on how to write stuff like that. But yeah, feel free to tell me what you guys think if you feel like reviewing!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Whew boy . . . A lot has been happening in my life as of late and especially around the holiday season to boot. But that is no excuse and I do recognize that. Regardless I got around to finishing up and polishing this chapter to the best of my current ability and thus, here ya go! Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or content from Game of Thrones or the Elder Scrolls Series.**

* * *

Chapter 5: Realization

Landing in the deep end of a snow bank, Darion groaned lowly as he sat upright. Pulling his head up and out of its temporary tomb. His eye's cracking open slightly he had to fight the urge wretch and vomit onto the snowy ground.

Shouting oneself through a daedric portal would leave a mark on you it seemed. His head still spinning wildly as he sat there dry heaving and vision blurry. This portal had been unlike anything he had gone through before and that was saying a lot given his past experiences.

He had stepped through a portal to a land of inebriation with Sanguine, descended into the Soul Cairne where the Ideal Masters fed upon his soul, and even been pulled into the Black Books by Hermaeus himself. But nothing could compare to the atmoran portal.

'It's like being sucked into a colorfully blinding and twisting straw and then being spat out onto the ground.' Darion thought sourly, his wheezing fit of coughing beginning to cease.

'Is this what it feels like to have a hangover from skooma?' He wondered idly, his bleary eyes now open and searching the surrounding snow drifts for his tag along companion.

"Aela?" He called out. The Dragonborn's voice only meeting with the chilly air. That's not good.

Rising to his feet shakily, Darion felt around his body briefly, checking to make sure that his weapons were still there. He could nearly taste his own relief when his gauntleted hand found Volendrung still clasped to his back and a steel sword strapped to his side. Sighing lowly, he began to wander the empty field, the cold winter winds that blew across the landscape his only company.

"Ralof?" He tried again, calling for the Harbinger of the Companions this time, though his voice was only met with the silent winter air yet again. Frowning at the lack of response, he trudged onward through the snow, his pace slowed gradually by the knee deep layers of snow.

"Aela?!" He called again to no avail. His frown deepening, Darion began to climb the steep hillock gradually only to trip over something buried in the snow. Catching himself with a curse, the Archmage glanced downwards to the offending object. That object having to be one of the Companion's he had been searching for, Aela to be exact. The Huntress was halfway buried into the snow, red hair tangled around her face, with her skin beginning to turn a slight shade of blue from the cold and her body lie unmoving and still.

'Oh come on, not you too.' He thought dejectedly, his already sour mood beginning to turn darker. Air gathering in his lungs he whispered a single word.

"**Laas**."

To his relief, a vibrant red aura shot up around Aela's still body. The flame like energy burning and flickering in the winter winds and seemingly shrinking at a glacial rate. She was alive, unconscious and missing out on all the motion sickness, but alive.

But also starting to freeze to death at a snail's pace if her changing skin color was any indication. The Huntress' nordic blood was fighting off the cold the best it possibly could, though her current clothing choice certainly didn't help matters. How in the hell was Aela even able to tolerate this arctic weather whilst showing so much skin?

Shaking his head, he bent down to grasp the woman by her upper arm to haul her out of the snow. His hand recoiling in a shock of surprise upon contact though. Her skin seemingly sizzling and smoking at the mere touch of his gauntleted hand.

". . . the . . hell?" Darion wondered aloud, glancing down at his open hand and back towards Aela's motionless body, his mind befuddled entirely. Steel never reacted like that to anything it touched, this was almost like the touch was acidic to her very being and ebony never reacted unless corrupted by daedric blood during forging. It had to be the silver.

'Which means that someone has been keeping secrets.' Darion realized with no small amount of curiosity. That would be a fun thing to grill her and Ralof about later.

'Speaking of which. Where in Oblivion is Ralof?' He wondered worriedly, his sea green eyes glancing out and around the area in search of his old friend. Hauling Aela up and onto his shoulder by her armor, Darion turned around to look back down the hill.

After the mead hall began to collapse and its entrances caved in, he had used his magic to hurl Ralof through the open portal first. Himself grabbing Aela and using whirlwind sprint to shoot into the portal right after the Harbinger while the hoard of undead closed around them all.

It had been mere seconds. Seconds, between when he and Aela burst into the portal and when he had thrown Ralof through the same gateway. So the question remained, where in Malacath's minty taint was he?

Hearing a crackling noise several yards behind him and down towards the base of the snowy hill, Darion observed with wide eyes as the frosty air swirled violently before it was rent apart by those same writhing, inky black tendrils. The gnashing phalanges grasping the snow covered ground and holding tight and still, letting that strange golden light come pouring through out into the frigid air.

Along with something else. Landing with an audible thud in the deep snow, he watched with bated breath while Aela was slung across his shoulder like a deer, still unsure as of yet to the person's identity. Its head jerked upwards out of the snow and screamed up at him with ice blue eyes. Revealing itself to be one of his men-at-arms, Dernim, his body crawling out of the snow to show his near bisected body as he stumbled forward clumsily.

His sea green eye's wide now, he began to reach up to grasp Volendrung's shaft, his hand touching the cool metal as another undead plopped down into the snow, and then another, and another after that. His hand dropped back down to his side almost instantly.

'Time to go.'

Turning swiftly to face the hill he began to climb at a sprinting pace. Cresting over the snow covered hill he descended as quickly as possible. Taking great care not to fall as he carried the Huntress atop his left shoulder. Looking outwards and into the near distance, right in the center of another open snow field, he began to draw breath into his chilled lungs.

"**Dur Neh Viir!"** Curse, never, dying. An apt set of words in dovahzuul for an undead dragon. The massive draconic being burning into existence with a swirl of purple flames and wind before his very eyes.

With a mighty shudder of his decaying, fleshy skin and scales, Durnehviir turned his head to regard his summoner quizzically. "Hhmm? Quahnarrin? Why do you run in faas? In terror?"

Running up alongside the great dragon's wing, Darion leapt atop the dragon's spiky back frantically, not caring about the danger of impalement in the slightest.

"Less talking more flying!" He ordered hurriedly, already making room to sit between Durnehviir's large protruding spines with Aela laying unconscious across his lap. The dragon huffed in annoyance, shaking his back violently in protest.

"I gave you my name to shout in your time of need. Not to be your carriage!" Durnehviir growled angrily, a low rumble leaving his fleshy throat and flames licking at his teeth as his horned head turned to look at his unwanted rider.

His face appearing stupefied, Darion looked the incensed dragon square in his deathly orange eye, merely pointing his arms out towards the hill he had just ran down to reach the dragon. A large group of shrieking undead clad in ripped furs, leathers and blackened flesh scrambling down the hill rapidly with a risen Dernim at their head.

"I THINK THIS COUNTS!"

Durnehviir's visible eye widened slightly at the sight, his massive head turning back around front as his large body began to push off the ground violently, decrepit wings flapping in the chilly air and lifting them off the deadly ground and into the frigid air.

* * *

If it was cold back down on the undead infested ground then it was positively freezing up in the clouds that hung above the earth. Cold weather and sub-zero temperatures could be miserable, yes, but it was the wind that made it so much worse. The fierce northern gales seeming to cut through his enchanted clothing and armor like a razor. He had had to resort to using a modified flame aura spell to warm both himself and Aela to both stabilize the Huntress and to make sure they each kept all of their digits at the end of this.

It had been only a few minutes of flight by now, he thought, though dragon's tended to fly quickly when traversing a landscape. Which brought his train of thought back to their current situation.

They were lost. Utterly lost.

"Quahnarrin, where have you summoned me too? This is not Taazokaan, Tamriel. The very air feel's different here yet similar at the same time." The dragon asked curiously, the beasts head turning slowly as he regarded the land miles below them.

Glancing up to the back of the dragon's head briefly, Darion looked back down to re-focus on his task at hand. His left hand shining a soothing, magical light over Aela's bloodied scalp. The wound from the mead hall was closed now, yes, but unpooling the blood collected in her head would take time and effort. Though even that would be hard to do he noted idly, the Archmage's eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

"I wish I knew Durnehviir, but I know what you mean. I generally have a large pool of magicka that I rarely call upon back home. But here?"

Glancing back up to take in the snowy stepped lands underneath them and the slate grey winter sky surrounding them in the clouded air. "Its as if the magic that flows from Aetherius just doesn't exist here. My own pool of Magicka is there still, but it's not being refilled by the Aether."

The ancient dragon's body seemed to rumble beneath him, as it purred in response to his words. "Hhhhhmmmm. If I had to guess, once you deplete your pool then that will be it. Only your thu'um and physical might will be left to you here."

Darion nodded slowly in response, his face as grim as the land surrounding them. Both flame cloak and the restoration spell in his palm sputtering out slowly and dying in the frigid air. It would have to do for now, pulling out anymore from his reserves would start to tap into his life force given a few minutes. The wound was fully healed and the blood that had pooled inside her skull had been re-distributed across her body but still she remained unconscious. And likely would for a spell until her mind fully recouped with rest.

It would be just himself, an unconscious woman who disliked him, and an undead dragon that pondered on questions and stated the obvious. Wonderful.

"Aye. Wherever we are it's not part of aedric influence. Perhaps deadric instead?" Darion wondered aloud. Durnehviir heard his words and merely snorted at them.

"Bah. Hardly, I've lived for far too long under the Ideal Masters to mistake an aedric realm for a deadric one." He dismissed haughtily.

Darion's eyebrows rose in response to the dragon's quick dismissal. "So what? Did Akatosh and the other divines decide to make a quick test run on how to make a planet?"

Durnehviir shook his horned head violently in response. "Niid. No, this world feels like Tamriel in essence and structure but the rest? The flow of tiid? Of time? It is not of Akatosh. Just as the sky here is not of Kynareth. This world feels more like an imitation of what the aedra created. It is unnatural."

Leaning back against one of the dragon's massive spines, Darion inhaled deeply. The chilly air feeling as though it would turn to ice in his lungs.

"So you think that one of the aedra who fled the creation of nirn was jealous and decided to make their own little world to rule over?" He supposed, the very idea seemed entirely too wild and radical for his own mind. The necromantic dragon hummed at his suggestion, the very sound not unlike low rolling thunder out in the distance.

"Perhaps. It is not out of the realm of koraas, of possibility."

Darion cocked his head to the side at Durnehviir's simple answer, his eyes peering out into the distance idly. Frozen and lifeless pine trees stood upright in the distance. Not much yet, but definitely better than endless hills and fields of snow, ice, and encroaching glaciers.

"How? Last time I checked it took a majority of the aedra's power to begin the creation of Nirn. How can one runaway aedra create a world all their own?" He asked, the Dragonborn's voice still laced with doubt.

Durnehviir seemed to laugh lowly in response. The great beast's scaly body rumbling as a laugh split from his maw. The very sound akin to jagged rocks pushed apart and crashed together in a watery rapid.

"It is not a question of sulyek. Of power, but more of motive. The power of any aedric or daedric being is said to be . . . unimaginable to dov minds. Even more so to that of a joor, a mortal. Think. The daedric lords of our home world did not wish to sacrifice their power for the creation of something they did not own. No, they consolidated their power in their own worlds. Their own realms."

The ancient dragon explained slowly as though he was speaking to a child and in all sense, he was. Technically speaking, Durnehviir was very much Darion's much older big brother if one were to associate the soul as part of their identity. This would leave Darion as the youngest of all Akatosh's children and very likely, the most ignorant. It sucked being the youngest.

"And still the daedra were jealous of what the aedra created, lest they wouldn't have went to such lengths in the creation of their many realms. Molag Bal is a perfect example of this. His realm, Coldharbour, is a mirror reflection of Taazokaan. He created his realm to try and match Tamriel. Molag decided it wasn't enough and has tried to take Taazokaan by force ever since."

Weighing the dragon's words in his mind, he replied. "That's one way of looking at it I suppose. Another would be that Molag Bal made his realm so he would have something to aspire towards. Or that the Daedric Lords as a whole don't really care about mortals too much. Aside from a want of worship and reverance."

Durnehviir huffed irritably in response, a puff of smoke billowing from his nostrils and disappearing in the air. "And what of Azura? Prince of the Sun and Moon, she loves those who worship her and curses those who don't out of spite and jealousy. Mephala is another matter. Many joor vie for Mara's favor and are in turn tricked by Mephala whom wants to corrupt her sphere with lies, lust, and deceit." He argued.

Darion had to suppress a snort at his words. Wouldn't do for their ride to grow weary of his presence and dump them both off in the middle of nowhere.

"Azura is a maybe, but your dead wrong about Mephala. She enjoys playing her games with peoples lives and relationships. I happen to know from personal experience." He spat out, the webspinner's name tasting like acid on his tongue.

Durnehviir glanced back at his unwanted rider out of the corner of his orange slitted eye, likely wondering what he had meant by his words, Darion mused. The necromantic dragon clicked his teeth as he spoke.

"Then you see my point all the more clearly then. If my suspicions are correct, then the webspinner wanted you as a tool? To steal you away from our bormah? From Akatosh?"

Darion frowned as his eyes narrowed though he nodded his affirmation all the same. Seeing this, Durnehviir continued his case.

"The power of a daedric prince doesn't just fade away. Niid. It disperses across all of existence and is absorbed by other, hungrier and greedier hosts. The webspinner's power has been ebbing away and slipping into the Soul Cairne for centuries." The ancient dragon revealed, his words taking hold in the Dragonborn's mind as his face turned to mild shock.

"It is only natural she would seek out a being of great power to use as a tool for her resurgence," He continued, his tone and words coming off as droll.

"You had power she could use to her ends though your soul belonged to our father, Akatosh. Whatever happened between you both was due to this jealousy and desperation, and if a daedric prince can become jealous and desperate for validation then why not an aedra?" Durnehviir explained calmly.

The Last Dragonborn's perplexed face seemed to calm slightly, the necromantic dragon's words ringing in his head quietly. The more he thought about them, the more that they began to make sense of their current predicament. But so many other questions remained yet still.

Questions of all the more intricate details, like how an aedra created this icy world and why still floated through his hazy mind. The answer would fit for now and he could ponder it later. For now, there were more important things to be dealt with.

"Any signs of life? People? Structures? Fire? Cause I can hardly see anything through these clouds." Darion asked after a moment of silence. His words seemed to fall on deaf ears however, as Durnehviir only ignored his probing question.

Sitting silently for a moment as wind blew past them noisily, Darion shuffled in his makeshift seat uncomfortably, beginning to be put off by the dragon's silence. Finally, Durnehviir broke the silence with a rumble in his voice.

"These undead . . . Have any of them been blue as ice so far?" Durnehviir asked with curiosity, though to Darion the question came from out of the blue.

"What? No, why do you ask?"

"Down below in the tree line, a group of undead are chasing a pair of joor, of mortals. An ice blue corpse sits at the back of hoard. They seem to defer to him during the hunt." He observed idly, the dragons horned head turning to look towards the event curiously, his mannerisms not unlike a cat. The sight alone would be amusing to himself were the situation not serious.

"How many?" Darion asked.

"Thirty or more, not counting their leader."

Exhaling through his nostrils to calm his nerves Darion nodded his head in affirmation. The white haired man already moving Aela's still body to rest snug in place against a neighboring spike whilst reaching forward to grasp a large spike firmly.

"Take us down then. We save them then we might just get some answers." He ordered with a decisive tone. Durnehviir acknowledged his command with grunt, the old dragon starting to fold his leathery wings inward against his body. Pointing his horned head down towards the icy earth they dove downwards rapidly. The arctic wind screaming past them as they fell through the open air.

Darion had to keep a grip on his spike and Aela to keep from being thrown off in the violent dive. Even more so when Durnehviir unfurled his wings again just above the top of the treeline, the massive gusts of air hitting the leathery wings pressing him further against the dragons back.

"**Yol Toor Shul!" **Fire, inferno, sun. The torrent of flames ripped forth from Durnehviir's maw as they glided over the tree tops. The thick stream of deadly fire cutting a swath through the dead forest burning them all away and clearing a place for them to land.

Crashing upon the muddy, ash-covered earth roughly, the ancient dragon came to sudden halt in his burned path. The last Dragonborn already jumping away from his seat and down onto the ground upon landing. Rolling to his feet with Volendrung clutched in his right hand he took in the sight before his eyes.

Durnehviir's thu'um had left a trail of destruction in the forest. The trees surrounding himself being burned away by the dragon fire as the flames licked away at their frozen bark, the ice cracking when kissed by the flames. Aside from clearing a path for landing, the dragon's shout had indeed taken a large chunk of the undead with it. Those of the decaying corpses that still remained were screaming and writhing in the snow as they were burnt away.

The sight was enough to leave a manic grin on his face. His smile disappeared however when his eyes drifted over towards where the fire hadn't touched. A lone figure stood there unnaturally still, glancing back at the newcomer over its bare shoulder with eerie blue eyes.

"N-no, no plea-" A man begged piteously, his cries for mercy going unheard by the icy creature as it drug its large crystal-like blade through the mans throat quickly, decapitating him mercilessly. The creature turned around slowly to regard him. Darion could see the beast much better now as the fire light danced across its pale body.

Durnehviir had been right about this thing being as blue as ice, he acknowledged mentally, though the creature looked more so like an ancient man. Like one that had been abandoned in the snowy wastes as a child and aged and withered away leaving the skin gaunt and clinging to what was left of its bones underneath the blackened armor it wore.

The undead creature raised its left hand wordlessly, tossing the head of the begging man towards Darion. The severed head rolling to stop at his feet just beside the licking flames, its mouth agape and bloody.

Sea green eyes glancing back upwards to look at back at the creature with a frown he could see the undead man was standing stock still, a stoic expression plastered upon its face. Flipping its ice-bound spear upwards, the blood splattered blade pointing outwards, the creature began to stride towards himself, the flames dying with a sizzle as its boots crunched snow underfoot.

Hearing a noise coming from behind the creature, Darion glanced over its shoulder to see the other surviving man beginning to sprint off into the snow at a frantic pace. That wouldn't do.

"Durnehviir! Stop that man and bring him back alive! I'll handle this!" He barked out, the dragon hearing his brief command already rising into the frosty air to give chase to the fleeing stranger whilst Darion readied his hammer as he too strode across the muddy ground.

Meeting at the edge of the blaze Darion swung first, the daedric warhammer whistling through the air towards the creature's chest. Much to his astonishment, the hammer missed its mark entirely, the icy creature merely leaning back slightly and letting the maul head pass by harmlessly; the creatures eerie blue eyes never moving from his own.

Realizing his costly mistake, Darion tried to stop the hammer mid-swing and change its direction only to feel a sharp, cold pain take hold in his abdomen. Glancing down to see the creatures icy spear embedded into his midsection, the tip penetrating through and starting to bite the soft flesh underneath.

Hissing in pain, he reared his head back and crashed it into the creature's face, head butting it viciously. The sudden blow sent the undead staggering back, dazed slightly, but otherwise unharmed and uncaring of the hit.

'Okay, that's enough playing around.' He thought murderously, his lungs filling with the arctic air as the words lashed out from his throat.

"**Fus Ro Da!" **He shouted out, the torrent of swirling blue energy ripping forth and sending the creature flying backwards into a neighboring pine tree some fifty feet away. The creature landing with a surprised shriek, the sound like ice scraping across stone.

Face married with an angry snarl, Darion surged forward to resume the fight, another shout already at the tip of his tongue.

"**Su Grah Dun!"** Air, battle, grace the words meant. A current of air rushing around his moving form and racing up and down his arms, hastening his movements as he choked his right hand up to Volendrung's spiked head.

Upon reaching the now standing corpse, Darion swung the hammer forwards for a jab to the creatures jaw. The hit came rapidly, almost too rapidly for the icy corpse to react too, its eerie blue eyes widening significantly as the thirty pound head narrowly missed its gaunt face, the head embedding itself slightly into the dead pine.

Not wanting to give the undead breathing room Darion ripped the hammer head out of the bark whilst throwing his free hand out in an attempt to backhand the corpse. The hit landing swiftly upon its cheek he brought Volendrung back down in a rapid overhead swing.

Seeing this, the strange corpse raised its ice-bound spear silently to catch the oncoming hammer in a makeshift block. The hammer landing upon the icy blade with a loud metallic clang that rang through the empty forest. None were more shocked than the creature itself whom glanced back from Volendrung then back towards himself with wide blue eyes and mouth agape in shock.

'What? Did he expect it break?' He wondered idly, trying and failing to find reason with the undead's unusual reaction. Shrugging off his mental inquiry, he roared in anger as he forced the creature back from the deadlock before kicking it backwards with his boot.

If this creature feared his hammer for whatever reason then so be it. He'll give him even more of a reason to fear it.

Ducking low and right under a hasty slash he jabbed the warhammer's head forward into the creatures ribs lifting it off the snow covered ground slightly as he brought his left hand back up for quick left cross on its jaw.

The punch missing as the corpse side stepped his attempt, it brought the butt end of its spear crashing into the back of Darion's unprotected head sending him stumbling forward. Grunting the Dragonborn regained his balance quickly, spinning back around to face his opponent again only to see the ice covered blade slicing through the air towards his bare throat.

With wide eyes, he let slip a single word.

"**Tiid!" **

The world fell quiet as the flow of time seemed to slow and pass by at a snail's pace. With time slowed along with the creature's blade, Darion leaned back slightly letting the tip of the blade skid by his throat by mere centimeters. Time speeding up again as the shout's brief effect ended.

Taking advantage of the corpses awkward situation Darion brought his left hand down to grip the end of Volendrungs haft, swinging upwards wildly and landing solidly on his opponents chin. The very force of the blow sending the creature air-born landing atop the muddy ground close to a dozen feet away.

"Finally!" Darion said exasperatedly. His shoulders sagging in relief as he watched the creature crash onto the muddy ground and lay still, unmoving and dead to the world surrounding it.

Letting out a breath of air he hadn't known he had been holding he winced, his hand going to his abdomen where the creature's crystalline spear had pierced through his cuirass and bit down into his flesh. Poking a few fingers into the hole, the appendages coming out stained in crimson blood.

'Damn, went in deeper than I thought.' He thought with a grimace, groaning lowly as he cast a healing spell over the open wound, the light flickering unreliably in his palm. The star's enchantments had already been at work mending the wound but speeding it up with a little restoration wouldn't hurt in the long run. He hoped.

Hearing a woosh of air coming from overhead, he craned his neck around to see Durnehviir landing back down on the ground gingerly with a still quite hysteric and frightened man clutched in his clawed foot.

"I see you were successful on your hunt! He give you any trouble?" Darion asked cheerfully, swinging Volendrung back into place on his back while he walked.

Durnehviir huffed in annoyance at his glib question glaring down at the man gripped in claws. "Rinik mal. He ran like a frightened hare but with the speed of a turtle." The dragon replied.

"Eh, at least you got him. I would ask you to release him but then he would probably run again," He said with a shrug, his eyes trailing down the dragon's decaying body to look at their new captive audience.

"So then. We're already off to a bad start but my name is Darion Stormblade. Yours?" He asked with a smile on his face, hoping that a friendly face would help to alleviate the man's obvious state of panic given his constant thrashing in Durnehviir's claws. That couldn't be comfortable.

The ratty blonde haired man didn't respond to his probing question instead choosing to thrash about harder and harder as the seconds ticked by all the while muttering something under his breath. The words being said just low enough to be inaudible to his ears.

Beginning to grow annoyed the man's silence, Darion walked forward and crouched down in front of the ratty man, sitting a mere arm's length away from his head. Being closer to him now enabled him to hear and comprehend snippets of what the man was muttering.

"Ight . . . wal . . . ar . . . cming . . . whit . . . kers . . ." He continued to babble incoherently. The lack of any sensible wording beginning to vex Darion ever so slightly.

"Hey! I need you to focus! That thing that killed your friend? It's dead. I made sure of it myself and right now I need you to answer a few questions and then you'll be free and back on your merry way. Alright?" He said diplomatically, though his words fell on deaf ears yet again as the man continued to babble.

He hated situations like these. Under heavy kinds of stress or situations of duress a person's mind or mental state could break entirely and leave them unresponsive to the outside world. The limit is different for everyone and this was his it seemed.

Sighing heavily, Darion reached up and grasped the man by his chin forcing him to look himself dead in the eye. A minor illusion spell would work wonders here in this situation but alas, studying under Tolfdir left little enough time to learn anything outside of alteration and what little time leftover he had devoted to studying at least a few destruction and restoration spells. He had never used kyne's peace on a person before. The thu'um could soothe the aggressions of wild beasts and turn them docile but a person?

'Guess it's time for a test run.' He thought with a rueful smile. The chilly air gathering in his throat and lungs as he prepared the words.

As the first of the draconic syllables began to leave his tongue a pained screech rent through the winter air. Backing away now alarmed, Darion glanced upwards to see that same pale crystalline spear embedded over two feet deep into Durnehviir's chest. The ice covered weapon punching clean through the ancient dragons vertebrae.

Looking backwards as Durnehviir roared in agony, he could see the undead standing upright again. It's previously human like face disfigured horribly with it's lower jaw crushed and hanging loosely from its skull as cracks shown across its tight blue skin.

Focusing his rage through the pain, Durnehviir's horned head leveled with the undead creature, his orange slitted eyes alight with a vengeful fury.

"**YOL TOOR SHUL!" **The ancient dragon roared, his decrepit jaws spreading wide as a stream of white hot flames bathed the undead and area it stood in in light and flame.

Durnehviir dragged out the shout as long as he could, the last word, shul, being lengthened as many a lesser dragon had been known to do. The old dragon's thu'um being ceased by a coughing and wheezing fit that took over as a blob of black phlegm and blood exited his mouth.

Much to their dismay and surprise the creature merely stood there staring right back at them as though it hadn't experienced a ghout of flame as hot as the sun itself. Though its pale body looked cracked with deep blue markings along its exposed skin along with some smoking across its blackened armor, but otherwise remained unharmed.

Snarling in anger Darion's hand shot back up to grip Volendrung's shaft again as he ran towards the now unarmed creature. It should have been dead. The force of that blow would have been enough to cave a troll's skull in completely. Not to mention a fully powered fire breath shout had barely fazed it. Undead or not its body was still humanoid and thus it shouldn't be able to take this level of punishment.

"**Wuld!" **The word of power propelling him forward towards the damaged creature and bowling it over as their bodies collided. Grinding to halt in the powdery snow, he pivoted on his left foot with the daedric warhammer gripped tightly in both hands as he swung the hammer overhead forcefully, willing it to land as hard as he could possibly swing it.

'I may not be able to kill you . . . But I can break you . . .' He thought murderously as the massive hammer head descended rapidly, his body still fueled by the speed of his thu'um and drove forward by his rage.

The hammer head struck true and deep into the corpses sternum, the blackened head buried up too its glowing red eye in its frozen flesh. The unknown creature screamed in anguish as he ripped the blunt weapon up and out of its ribcage going to swing downwards again and again.

***CRACK*** Another few vertebrae crushed to dust. ***CRUSH*** Another pained scream from the undead creature and another shattered bone structure, the pelvis this time. Becoming more and more enraged with each swing and failure at killing the creature as it screeched in terror and traumatizing pain as he continued to swing.

"WHY. WON'T. YOU. DIE?!" Darion roared angrily, having heard enough of the ice blue creature's guttural shouts he brought the hammer down again crushing into its throat and windpipe this time, rendering it unable to speak save a watery gargling noise.

It was too much. The threat of invasion to his home and city, the failed expedition to Atmora, his guilt in his men's deaths, Aela bloody and unconscious, Ralof lost either out in the snowy wastes and a plane of oblivion dead or alive, and Durnehviir writhing in agony with an icy spear embedded where his heart and lungs should be.

Taking a step back whilst breathing heavily he glared down at the creature. The undead staring right back at him silent murderous intent. It was all his fault. Everything up until this point could have been avoided if he hadn't let his arrogance in his own power, his hubris, get the better of him. It had been his arrogance that had hurt everyone else around him, his arrogance that had them both stranded in an arctic hellscape.

Shaking his head and looking away from the creature's piercing blue eyes momentarily he glanced down at his weapon briefly. This had to end. No more of letting his hubris damage everyone around himself. No more being self-assured that his power was more than sufficient. That arrogance had cost himself too much already in just over a week. He had the power to end things quickly but his own pride, battle lust, and arrogance all hampered himself and hurt those around him.

No more.

Glaring back down at the still creature whose eyes which still glared up at him hatefully and unmoving, he let Volendrung slip down his limp hand, the green glowing hammer landing in the muddy ground with a wet thud. No more second chances.

"**FUS RO DA!"** A torrent of raw, blue energy shot out from his mouth crashing upon the undead's head violently and unrelenting. The thu'um being more focused and direct at point blank range leaving the creatures head nonexistent as it exploded outwards in a shower of boney shrapnel and frozen tissue.

Looking upon its body once more to make sure the dead was done, Darion nodded his head grimly before being broken out of his reverie by Durnehviir's pained cries. Looking back up, he slung Volendrung back across his back as he ran over to the dragon again.

Digging his feet into the dirt Darion grasped the icy spear tightly in his hands, looking sidelong at Durnehviir whom watched him cautiously.

"Brace yourself, this is going to hurt." He warned. The ancient dragon growled in response to his words a rumble reverberated through his scaly body.

"As if I don't know that. Just hurry it up-" Durnehviir started his words being cut off as the spear was forcibly removed from his body, raking the fractured bone as it went. Rearing back his head in pain, the dragon let out a plume of orange flames into the grey winter sky.

The searing pain beginning to recede slowly Durnehviir craned his neck back down to regard the Dragonborn as he sat there crouched and clutching a golden light close to his scaly chest.

"Niid. You need not heal me Quahnarrin. I will recover upon my return to the Soul Cairne." He rumbled. The Archmage glanced back upwards the dragon's crowned head.

"True, you could heal there, but I feel responsible for you being impaled. For everything that's went wrong so far really." He explained calmly as the spell worked slowly but surely mending the broken fragments of bone and flesh back together with a low crunching sound.

Durnheviir shifted awkwardly on his one foot upon hearing his words. Pride and power was the very essence of a dov, of a dragon, for one to show weakness was . . . unbecoming.

"You couldn't have known the diil, the undead, would survive a blow from Malacath's setkiir, his toy." He ground out lowly. Glancing back upwards at the dragon Darion raised a lone eyebrow in question. Wasn't everyday a dragon tried to say anything remotely comforting.

Darion was silent for a moment while he continued work on Durnehviir's wound, the only sounds surrounding them being the wind as it blew through the dead forest bending the tree's just enough so that their ice coating would crack apart, the ringing hum of the restoration spell in his hand, and the struggling sounds of the ragged blonde man still clutched in the dragons talons.

Glancing over to the subject in question, Darion nodded his head towards him. "Take him for example. He and his friend were being hunted down by a hoard of undead when we decided to intervene. We saved him yet he fears us both."

He paused, shaking his head slightly before the words came back to him. "It feels like I take one step forward only to take two steps back in turn."

His words gave the necromantic dragon pause as the lumbering dov turned his head to look away and back out into the surrounding trees. Durnehviir broke the silence with a low rumbling sound as he spoke.

"I have never been one for greyz, for morality, but it seems too me that one can do something with the purest of intentions and still have them backfire onto themselves." He explained carefully, testing out each word as he spoke with care.

The healing spell dying in his hands with a sputter of sparks Darion backed away from the dragon's chest moving to retrieve the creature's crystal-like spear.

"If anything I do will just come back to haunt me then why should I even try at all?" He asked quizzically, his head cocked to the side slightly whilst waiting for the dragon's reply.

Letting out a huff of hot air through his nostrils Durnehviir acquiesced to his question. "For if you do not then that will haunt you for the rest of your joor laas, your mortal life. Pruz wah unt ruz dreh nid. Better to try than to do nothing. That is a truth of laas, of life."

Darion stood there for a moment his body as still as iron-iced trees surrounding them as the words began to sink in. Remaining silent he walked forward and began climbing atop Durnehviir's spike covered back. Finding his seat beside Aela's still unconscious body and settling down in the scaly groove silently.

"Alright, enough of this mushy talk. When you went after our new friend did you see anything noteworthy in the distance?" Darion asked briefly, his tone commanding to another's ears.

Durnehviir huffed in response as he spoke. "A break in the tree line towards the east and a wall of ice looming past it." He answered, already turning his massive body towards the east to take off and out of the burned swathe of dead forest.

The Dragonborn nodded his head in affirmation. "Good. Take us there and we'll investigate. Maybe get a chance to talk to someone whose not terrified yet." He ordered.

The necromantic dragon rose up into the air quickly with a burst of energy and gusts of air from his leathery wings. Finding purchase among the arctic wind currents they glided easily through the air, like a sailing ship on the calm waters of a clear mountainous lake.

"And Durnehviir?"

The dragon in question glanced back towards his conscious rider in wonder.

"Thank you."

Durnehviir merely grunted in response. Shaking his massive scaly neck, he brought his head back to gaze out towards the enormous wall of ice that loomed in the distance.

* * *

**Oookaay! And perhaps a bit of explaining on some stuff I guess. First up, how is Volendrung able to kill wights, hold up against a White Walker's blade, but not be able to kill it?**

**One word, Malacath. **

**And some lore too. Volendrung was forged by the dwarves way back in the Merethic era and was thrown across Tamriel to land in what would be called Hammerfell later on. Malacath later claimed this hammer as one of his own Daedric Artifacts.**

**Now to personal theory. I strongly believe that although the he didn't make Volendrung, that Malacath would still imbue the hammer with a bit of his power. The hammer is associated with himself and it just wouldn't due for it to lag behind the other Prince's weapons, ya know?**

**So that's why it could kill normal wights and not break against a Walkers weapon. The reason for why it can't kill a Walker is because they kind of have hacks. Valyrian Steel and Dragonglass can kill Instantly and we never even see them get touched by normal steel since they BREAK IT ALL. Still. I would assume that if touched then they can still be damaged, just not outright 'killed'.**

**Sort of like missing a special dagger in the show Supernatural and chucking the monster into a wood chipper instead.**

**But yeah, Volendrung can't kill a Walker. But something like Dawnbreaker? Oof, I'm sorry but a White Walker ain't living through that sword. Also you'll notice that Darion still has the spear, yeah? That Walker isn't technically dead yet.**

**Nothing else is really coming to mind right now to try and explains If I missed anything feel free to either PM me or review and let me know what you think so far!**

**Oh, and by the way! Have a good Thanksgiving guys!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Yo! Just got done with this chapter just a little bit ago and finished it up as best I can, but first I'd like to say THANK YOU to everybody that reviewed last chapter! I'm glad that you guys were receptive to it, as it means in my sugar addled mind that I may be doing at least ONE thing right.**

**So thank you, truly.**

**But anyway! Away from the mushy stuff! Here ya go guys!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or content from Game of Thrones or the Elder Scrolls Series.**

* * *

Chapter 6: Plan

"Corn?"

The scratchy voice asked from his side. A large, midnight black crow sat perched on the corner of his oaken wood desk, staring at him expectantly with intelligent, beady black eyes.

"Corn?" It asked again. With an audible groan, the old man reached into a pocket inside his dark woolen tunic, the hand retrieving a palm full of the birds selected delicacy.

"One of these coming days, you will be the sole reason the Watch goes hungry. You know that right?" He remarked dryly, letting the large crow feed and peck the kernels out of his bare hand greedily. Shaking his head at his pets actions, Jeor Mormont turned his grizzled face back down to the papers laid before him.

He had been the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch for nigh on a decade now and a sworn brother for even longer than that. But never had he ever had to deal with situations like these, not even during his tenure as the ruling Lord of Bear Island.

His aged face began to scowl at the memory of home and the events that led to him regaining the fine blade that hung on the rack just across the solar. Even back then, Bear Island was never rich or supremely powerful, but at least the people of his homeland were self-sustaining.

'Something that the Watch is most definitely not.' He thought with snort, his eyes trailing over the parchment with an intense scrutiny. Shipments of rations, good quality steel, and recruits were still on the decline, just as they had been for his entire career here at the Wall.

Breathing a weary sigh, the Old Bear picked the sheet up and placed it atop the gathering mountain of paperwork situated at the other side of his desk.

'Supply trains are near non-existent now. The Riverlands have stopped sending supplies north just like the other five kingdoms now and Lord Stark is the only one sending supplies and men northward now.' He recounted grimly.

At one point and time the Nights Watch had numbered well into the thousands and had manned a total of thirteen castles along the breadth of the ancient structure. Now? A thousand men they were and all spread between the only three castles not fallen into disrepair, Eastwatch-by-the-sea, the Shadow Tower, and Castle Black itself.

'Hardly enough to coordinate any large ranging's beyond the Wall or to attempt to halt the wildlings advancements on the Wall.' The Lord Commander thought with a frown, his mind weary from the stress of it all.

Exhaling quietly, Jeor reached across his desk to grasp his quill, stopping to dip the tip into the ink well as he pulled a blank piece of paper in front of himself. Though they lacked the ideal numbers, he had ordered for a new ranging to be conducted and led by Ser Waymar Royce barely a fortnight ago.

Benjen Stark, his second in command and First Ranger of the Nights Watch had disagreed with that decision. Greatly disagreed, he amended. Ben had been right though in the end. He had said that Royce was still 'green enough to piss grass' if he recalled correctly.

The recent argument had been less than a stellar time for both parties but the recalling of those words brought a ghost of a smile to the old bears face. Regardless, Ser Waymar was an anointed knight and had great ties to the east in the Vale of Arryn through his father and other kin. If they could but win the brash nobleman to their side . . . . the possibilities were endless.

So he had made a gamble. One that his second disagreed with wholeheartedly. In return however, Stark had gotten the opportunity to choose the rest of the rangers to accompany Ser Waymar. Those being Garen, a veteran of the Nights Watch of some thirty years by now, and Will, a common boy caught poaching and a great hunter and tracker to boot. The group was to track and gather information on the wildlings movements beyond the Wall. Though that had been days ago by now.

'They should be due back anytime now.' He though wearily, finishing the letter and placing the quill back on the desk with a sigh. Already leaning back into his chair to try and enjoy the small moment of peace and quiet. His wrinkled eyelids closing slowly but surely, he felt as though he could just drift off into sleep without a care in the world.

"Corn?"

Jeor's hand twitched at the scratchy voice of his overfed crow. His brown eyes opening now to stare balefully at the object of his irritation. The bird merely hopped forward and closer to himself on the desk, cocking its head to the side while waiting patiently.

'Perhaps I should let Maester Aemon watch him for a spell. If only just too have some quiet in my solar.' He thought conspiratorially. His train of thought however was cut off by the sharp blast of a horn from atop the Wall's ramparts.

'Good, they've returned.' He thought with a small amount of relief, already standing from his seat and crossing the room to don his black cloak, his crow flapping over and landing on his right shoulder clumsily.

His weathered hand grasping the door handle a second horn blast made his eyes widen significantly and breath to catch in his throat momentarily. His face going back to its usual stony nature, Jeor grasped his family sword from the rack before ripping his solar door open with an inner fury. If Mance Rayder was marching on the Wall already, then so be it. He would gladly fight the traitor down to the last man.

Castle Black would not fall. Not so long as he lived, he swore mentally.

Walking along the wooden platforms connecting to the courtyard, the Lord Commander found the yard to be abuzz with his sworn brother's racing to and fro with weapons in hand and carrying barrels of siege supplies across to the lifts to make a few last minute preparations.

His aged eyes spying a few of the newer recruits down in the yard standing still with their thumbs up their asses, he barked out orders at them to get a move on. The newer recruits jumping to action at his raised voice almost instantaneously.

Hearing the rapid sound of approaching footsteps on the near ancient wooden boards, Jeor turned quickly to see his second, Benjen Stark striding towards him.

Opening his mouth to address his black brother, the old bear's blood nearly turned to ice in his body as a third, longer horn blast echoed down from the Wall. Benjen must have sensed his brief moment of panic, as the First Ranger turned to look down at the men whom had stopped moving entirely upon hearing the third blast.

"DON'T JUST STAND THERE! GET YOUR ASSES UP THE WALL!" Benjen roared angrily, his voice cracking like a whip to the stunned men below. Another of the officers, Ser Alliser Thorne, helping to expedite the process greatly. The generally bitter man barking out orders at some of the stragglers and having to put a literal boot in one of their posterior's to get them moving faster with a barrel of tar.

As the chaos reigned down below, a fourth horn blast rang out from high above and then a fifth and then a sixth following after that. Much like himself and Benjen, everyone down in the yard was stopped in place looking up to the wall stupefied and bewildered. Had someone just got drunk and wanted to test the horn out? If so, then their would be hell to pay, Mormont thought with no small amount of anger.

Turning his near bald head to look sidelong at his First Ranger, he spoke. "Get someone up there and find out what's going on," He ordered briefly, the old man already shaking his head as walked past the Stark and back to his quarters.

'We have a thrice-damned horn system for a reason.'

His dark thoughts ceased however when his ears twitched from the sound of panicked shouts erupting from behind his moving body.

"D-Dragon! It's a bloody dragon!" One of the men shouted out, his voice one of pure panic and fear. At first, Jeor wanted to scoff and turn around to call the man a liar and a fool. Everyone knew that the dragon's had been dead for well over a century by now. It was just impossible.

The earth-shattering roar that split through air said otherwise however. The sound was enough to send a great number of the men of the Watch scurrying back to various hiding holes across the castle in terror. The wind whipping past the balcony viciously, the Lord Commander hurried back over to the railing to stand beside Benjen.

Staring up into the grey northern skies to see a horrific winged beast soar up and away from the castle's main keep, a piece of rubble from the stoneworks flying off with it. His breath caught in his throat as the beast stalled in the air, turning about suddenly and starting to dive back downwards to Castle Black.

"TAKE COVER!" The Lord Commander yelled out, his voice echoing across the courtyard as the men scurried like frightened rats to their chosen holes. In all likelihood no amount of cover would save them from the dragon fire that was sure too come. Memories of himself as child reading about Aegon's conquest of Westeros racing through his panicked mind.

To his infinite surprise however, the massive beast slowed down as it approached the castle, its leathery wings beating the air up and away whilst settling down to land gently in the middle of the now deserted courtyard.

The dragon was truly massive, its body alone easily the size of two large wagons lain end by end, its wingspan was surely double that, he thought. His face crinkled in revulsion by the sight of the beast up close however. The dragon may have had horrific size though it appeared to be as ancient as the world itself. Its skin and scales hanging loosely across its body and looked to be rotting in the dim sunlight.

His eyes trailing upwards to the beasts deathly orange slitted eyes that seemed to bore into his soul, then to the crown of jagged horns that graced its head, and then to the large protruding spikes along its spine, but it was who sat between the spines that made his blood run cold again.

Sitting upright, confidently and grinning down at them all was a single silver haired man dressed in smoky grey steel, dark leather, a black fur hood and ornate green hearaldry on his cloth's, along with a red haired woman lain unconscious across his lap, who in turn, could easily pass for a wildling from beyond the Wall given the scruffy armor and leather she wore. The man could hardly be older than some of his newest recruits, Grenn and Pypar, both of which were just barely over twenty namesdays by now.

His long, angular face looked up just right as the sunlight splayed over his features, revealing a haunting set of glowing green eyes that shown with mirth. His gaze scanned across the courtyard briefly, lingering on Ser Alliser and Benjen momentarily before settling on himself.

Maybe it was the fact that this man, no, this boy he decided, was sitting astride a dragon that unsettled him and made himself want to shrink down into his cloak, or perhaps it was the easy going expression plastered on the boys face. He didn't know, but he would not be cowed. The only time to be brave was when one was afraid after all.

"I'm just going to assume that you're the leader of this ragtag bunch?" The stranger asked rhetorically, his already wide smile only seeming to grow as he spoke.

Finding his voice again, Jeor broke out of his stupor and responded in kind. "I am Jeor Mormont, Lord Commander of the Nights Watch. You are trespassing on our lands, in our very castle no less, so if you would be so kind and state your name and purpose."

His voice and words authoritative even though that was by far the farthest thing he felt right now. He could keep up his appearance of having power, yes, but the real power lay in who that dragon listened to and all the men listening knew it too.

"Tresspasser! Tresspasser!" The raven squawked, its scratchy voice crying out in the silence. Jeor felt near ready to strangle the damn bird to silence it lest it get them all killed. His anxiety went up ever more when the boy leaned forward to rest against a spike lazily, his sea green eyes flitting from his bird and then back to himself.

"Curious little bird you got there, though, little would be an understatement at this point. You clearly feed him far more than he needs." He said candidly, his head of long silver hair nodding to the near chicken-sized crow perched on his shoulder.

"Feed?" The crow squawked, his head turning to look at the stranger questioningly. The newcomer seemed to notice again as a smirk spread across his face, the expression practically screaming 'told you so'.

"But where are my manners? My name is Darion Stormblade, Jarl of Winterhold, the Last Dragonborn, and slayer of the World Eater, Alduin." The now named Darion introduced cheerily, his steel plated hand reaching down to pat the side of his dragon, he continued.

"And this here is Durnehviir, my part time horse replacement." He finished, his words and mannerisms relaxed and glib. Though his mount didn't seem to take his words too well as the great beast's head whipped around to stare its rider in the eyes almost . . . irrtatedly.

"Zu'u vis tul vosmah hi nol lok hi mindok." The dragon seemed to threaten, much to everyone's shock, the beasts large teeth gnashing and grinding together in what seemed to be anger directed at his rider. If Darion was worried by whatever his mount said in that guttural language, it didn't faze him, as he merely laughed in response.

"We both know I have a multitude of ways to get out of that, Durnehviir." He chided playfully, his grin coming back full force now, paying no mind to their befuddled audience that surrounded them across the castle walls.

"Aalkos. But the miil, the woman does not." The dragon rumbled in response, an almost pleased and toothy grin spreading across its maw whilst Darion's own shrunk back into a deep frown. The Old Bear couldn't help but feel like they were all missing out on some joke or jest that had passed between the pair.

"Fine, fine, I'll lay off of it. For a bit at least," Darion placated, his hands raising in mock defeat, though his gaze hardened now for the first time as he stared back at Jeor. Now they could get down to business.

"As you may have noticed the woman on my lap, she is unconscious and in need of some food and rest. I've tended to her wounds as best I can but I would prefer to have another see to them as well, just to be sure." Darion stated loudly, his words carrying an authoritative tone and weight as he spoke with determination.

The Lord Commander seemed to mull this over in his mind for a moment as he stood there staring back at the stranger, his hands gripping the railing beginning to loosen slightly as his muscles relaxed from the released tension.

On one hand, all this 'Darion Stormblade' had asked for was room and board for both of himself and his compatriot but also for medical help via a maester. Not too much of a demand mind you and certainly within his power to grant. But that hair and dragon of his . . . .

Glancing sidelong to all the faces that stared up at him expectantly, Benjen, Ser Alliser, Donal Noye, Yoren, Grenn, Pypar, and countless others scattered across the fortifications, the Lord Commander came to a decision.

"It is certainly within my power to grant your request. However, I would have words with you in my solar before anything is decided. Is this acceptable?" Mormont offered diplomatically. The boy he spoke too hardly seemed dangerous given his mannerisms and speech but he still couldn't shake the feeling that he was walking a fine line.

"Only if you have Aela here tended to first before we talk. And tell you what, to sweeten the pot a bit," He trailed off as he leaned back against a spine, his eyes glancing back down to his dragon.

"Durnehviir, release him."

His old, wrinkled face showing visible confusion at first, Jeor watched as the rotting dragon lifted up one of its clawed feet and unclenching it to reveal one of the rangers from Ser Waymar Royce's expedition. It was Will. The boy was in a hysterical fit as he scrambled away from the massive beast, crying out incoherently as Yoren made to catch the boy, holding him firm and still as he thrashed about uselessly.

"We found him north of your Wall in the forest fleeing from some manner of creatures. He was the only survivor."

Exhaling deeply, Jeor's mind whirled with thoughts at near blinding speeds trying to make sense of it all. More questions to be asked, as if he needed any more questions to have too answer today.

"Aye, I'll agree to that. Ser Alliser, show Jarl Darion here to his quarters for now. We'll meet in my solar in one hour's time. Yoren, Grenn, Pypar, escort Will and the woman to Maester Aemon and return to your duties. That applies for the rest of you as well." Jeor barked out, his gruff words galvanizing the men into action as they scurried about the castle.

Darion stared back at him, nodding his head in gratitude with a small, but sincere smile, plastered across his face. "Thank you, Lord Commander. I won't forget this gesture."

Staying silent and stoic as ever, Jeor merely nodded in response as he let go of the railing, turning to walk back to his solar with Benjen Stark trailing after him.

"I thought the dragons were all gone." Benjen said quietly, his voice lowered in a hushed tone. Jeor nodded his own head in agreement with the First Rangers words.

"And I thought the Targaryen's were all gone. Yet we have both on our damned doorstep."

* * *

Sitting on the rickety bed with a sigh, he felt as though he had died and went to Sovngarde. The bliss of being able to lay back on a warm bed without the worry of the cold was a wonderful feeling, he thought.

In fact, ever since that dour man, Thorne, had escorted him here, the only thing he had done was lie on the bed, kick back and just relax, the tension in his muscles long gone now. They were still in a strange land and inside a foreign fortress, yes, but their was something about the leader of this place, about its Lord Commander that put him at ease. The man seemed honorable enough at the very least.

Though appearances could be deceiving, he knew. Growing up in High Rock tended to make you question everybody's motives and intentions. People back home could be shady like that.

'Home . . . such a subjective word. I grew up in Wayrest for my entire childhood yet I always felt more at home in my mother's homeland. In Skyrim.' He thought a small smile, his eyes glancing to the window in his quarters, watching the snow begin to fall ever so gently outside.

He hadn't thought about High Rock or his time their for years now, much less about the mother he never got to know.

Darion had began his life in the city of Wayrest in the western most province of High Rock. The only child of a wealthy breton spice merchant and his lovely wife of nordic descent. From overhearing conversations either during his father's dealings with other merchants or select clientele he had began to piece the puzzle of his family together.

'It was always a twisted, convoluted thing. Maybe it would have been different had Kyris lived in the end.' He mused, his thoughts and face turning somber as memories long buried began to claw their way to the fore front of his mind.

"Doesn't matter now though. Can't change the past." He said quietly to himself in the dark room, the pale light from the window his only illumination, the light striking just right on the crystalline spear for it reflect it and sparkle like a gemstone as it sat against the wall beside Volendrung in the corner.

The sight of the spear brought Darion back into the present gradually, his eyes trailing across its reflective shaft, to the roots entwined along its surface, and the dried blood that still clung to its blade. That would be a fun thing to try and explain.

If the man they had rescued had been any indication, then magic, or anything of the supernatural variety really, would likely be viewed with suspicion and fear. Just like the people of Winterhold had done years ago.

The thought of his home, of its snowy mountains and ice bound shoreline, and also of the people there that had looked to him for guidance made him grunt in irritation. Swatting himself on the head lightly, as though he was batting away an annoying fly.

'Damn it. Haven't even been gone for two weeks and I'm already homesick.' He cursed mentally, sitting up now on the bed with a grimace, his hand touching the puncture hole in his cuirass idly.

His armor was still damaged from that creatures spear. The ebony reinforced steel having been punched clean through like a nail drove through wood. The metal was still their mind you, but it would need to be re-forged and hammered back into shape lest the metal continue to dig into his gut as he moved.

Hearing a sharp knock come from across the dark room at the door, Darion's head looked up lazily as the person spoke.

"The Lord Commander will see you now, mi'lord." The man said, his voice muffled and distorted behind the thick wooden door. Standing up, he strode across the room his hand's first reaction to grasp his warhammer.

His hand about to touch the cold ebony forged grip, he stopped abruptly. Much as he might like to bring his hammer along for the ride, this was in all technicality a peace talk he was about to walk into, and bringing a weapon would be far from a good move on his part.

Darion's eyes drifted across to the spear that stood beside the daedric artifact, staring at the ice bound weapon appraisingly. Perhaps one weapon wouldn't hurt after all. Besides, he still needed answers about what he and Durnehviir had fought out in the forest just an hour prior.

His mind made up, Darion picked the crystal like weapon up by the center of its shaft, his hand feeling the burning cold touch even through the leather and steel, and slinging it onto his back where Volendrung would sit as he opened the room door.

The heavy oaken door swinging wide, he was greeted with the face of one of the men of the Nights Watch. One of the three assigned to take Aela to their healer, Grenn, he believed his name was.

"Finally! I had begun to think you lot have forgotten about me! Shall we be on our way then?" He said cheerily, his over the top enthusiasm serving to make Grenn slightly uncomfortable. Though to his credit, he got over this rather quickly.

"Of course, right this way mi'lord." He said quickly, his hand gesturing for Darion too follow along behind himself. Obliging him, they settled into a brisk pace down the dark corridor their only source of light the torches fastened to the stone walls; the flames leaping across the wood and casting light and shadow over their moving forms.

"If I remember correctly, then you were one of the men who took Aela to your healer, correct? Grenn I believe your name was?" He asked curiously. Their paces slowing to a stop as his guide opened a door in front of them both.

His red haired guide nodded. "Aye, that's my name." He replied, his words curt as they both walked out into the dim light of the snowy afternoon, the frozen flakes falling all around them gently.

"How was she?"

The recruit shook his head as he spoke. "Don't know, didn't stay long enough to find out. Old Maester Aemon knows what he's doing though, so no need to worry. If anything, Will seems to be in the worst state. We couldn't get him to utter a single word the entire way there." Grenn said with look of dismay and a small shake of his head.

He seemed to get an idea though, as his he glanced back at him quizically. "You seem awfully concerned bout' her though . . . are you two . . . ?" Grenn trailed off, leaving the question open ended though as blunt as a hammer.

The unexpected question elicited a snort of laughter from the Dragonborn. "Ha! I dare you to ask her that when she wakes up." He laughed out, his smile shrinking whilst gazing out over the courtyard. "No, I just feel responsible for her is all."

Grenn merely gave him an odd look at his words, but shrugged and let the subject drop, focusing more on navigating along the stone walkway than anything else. Darion eyes however, were looking back at the indentions in the frozen earth where they had landed barely an hour ago.

'I wonder where Durnehviir took off to? Probably out enjoying his temporary freedom I'd expect.' He thought to himself with a small smile.

The old dragon deserved it after all, he'd had to put up with his shenanigans for nigh on four years now, and before being summoned could be found flying aimlessly, trapped in the recesses of the Soul Cairne. Longing for a day he might return and fly across Nirn once more.

His sea green eyes glancing up to the now clouded sky as thousands of flakes of snow fell from the heavens. 'I doubt he'd go too far out from the Wall while I'm still stuck here.' He thought.

Looking back to follow Grenn down the icy stone steps, his jaw twitched. 'At least, I hope he doesn't.' He added mentally.

They crossed the courtyard silently, passing by many a man clad in the black leathers and fur of the watch, the ends of their cloaks billowing like the feathers of a bird in the gentle breeze. People were still staring at him oddly, he noted, watching a pair of men stare at himself whilst they were unloading a couple barrels of tar from the lift.

Looking over at them, Darion smiled wide, looking the closer one in the face from afar. The man seemed to pale slightly and look away, going right back to the task at hand. Weird, he thought, his head turning back to address Grenn as they walked.

"So besides riding in on a dragon, why is everyone so jumpy around me?" Darion asked, trying to be friendly to another person that passed by them, only for said person to duck their eyes down to the ground and scurry away.

Grenn's pace slowed at his words, his own eyes looking at the men Darion mentioned. Seeing their reactions, he opened his mouth, then closed it. Trying to find the right words to say.

"Aside from that? Well . . . you have the look of a Targaryen." He said slowly, his voice lowered to the point of being nearly inaudible as he breathed the name.

Darion only blinked owlishly, his face blank. "A Targary-what's-it-now?" He asked stupidly, his head clocked to the side in evident confusion. Grenn merely stared at him dumbfounded, his jaw slightly agape.

"You've not heard of them? Please tell me you've at least heard of the Mad King?" He asked quietly, his blue eyes now staring back at himself.

Darion's own face began to scrunch up, his mouth frowning as he nodded his head to the side. "No . . . I haven't," He admitted slowly, his feet climbing up the final set of steps to Mormont's solar. "Though I'm beginning to feel that I should."

Grenn's dark blue eyes widened as he nodded quickly, his gloved hand reaching up to knock on the large wooden door. "Aye, you should. Thought everyone north of the Wall knew bout' the shit Mad King Aerys got up too." He said exasperatedly, his head turning back to the door.

"Lord Darion here to see you, Lord Commander!" He called out into the frigid air, hearing a muffled voice reply, Grenn pushed the heavy oaken door open, his face turning back to Darion's own.

"Good luck."

Darion nodded at the well wishing, though internally, he was starting to have a mild panic attack to tell the truth, the hair on the back of his neck felt bristled like the fur of a cornered cat. Taking a deep breath, he walked through the open doorway, turning around to shut the heavy woodwork with an audible thud.

His head turning back around to see the many expectant faces staring back at him. The Lord Commander sat behind a massive wooden desk that held paperwork stacked near as high as his own balding head and the gluttonous crow sat perched on his shoulder peering at the newcomer with a piercing gaze.

Aside from the older gentleman, was two other men standing off too the side of the solar. One of them with long, dark hair and a full beard and stormy grey eyes. He was frowning rather deeply, Darion noted idly, whilst the other one, Thorne, the dour grey-haired man that had escorted him too his chambers earlier, stood to his immediate right. One of the older mans hands were hidden beneath his black cloak, presumably on the hilt of some weapon, he mused.

His eyes drifting back to the Lord Commander, Darion noticed the old man's pointed gaze was not on himself, but on the blood stained spear in his left hand. With a subtle roll of his eyes, he leaned the crystalline weapon against the stone wall of the solar.

"I'll explain that here in a bit," He placated, his gaze going back to Thorne whose eyes were still boring into the side of his skull. "And I'm not gonna use it to harm any of you. If I was, I would have had Durnehviir torch the entire keep."

His blunt words seemed to make them all relax slightly, though Thorne only released us grip on the hilt if his sword, his baleful glare never leaving his head.

"True, though, perhaps you can explain to all of us who you really are?" Mormont said pointedly, his hands and fingers interlocked just in front of himself.

Darion made to reply, but was cut off by Thorne's angry snarl. "Don't bother Lord Commander, this one's no Targaryen. He may have the hair and the dragon, but he's not one." He spat angrily, his gaze seemingly becoming ever more hateful with each word he spoke.

"And just how do you know that, Ser Alliser? The boy clearly rode in on a dragon and if I'm not mistaken only a Targaryen can do that." The grey eyed man said from the corner, his arms folded against his chest.

Thorne glanced back at the man, his dark eyes turning back to Darion, his head shaking in disgust. "Believe me, Stark, I know. When Prince Raeghar marched on the Trident I was one of the few knights chosen to watch over the royal family in place of the Kingsguard. This . . . imposter," He snarled. "Is not Viserys Targaryen."

Targaryen, that same strange word again. Evidently it was a family name, he knew at least that much by how everyone so far had used and said it, but why were these three men and everyone outside thinking he was one? Hell, he didn't even know what in Oblivion a Targaryen was or is.

"Targaryen . . . That same word again. You all keep saying it, thinking I am one, yet I haven't foggiest notion of what the hairy fuck a Targaryen is." Darion said lowly, his body moving to lean against the stone wall lazily, watching as all the other men's eyes gathered back onto himself.

"Can someone please explain so we can get somewhere in this discussion?"

Hearing someone clear their throat loudly, his eyes returned to look back at the Lord Commander, the old man leaning back in his chair with a stoic expression painted across his face. "I'm surprised you haven't heard of them. Though if that was a wildling woman you brought with you, then I suppose I shouldn't be surprised," Jeor said calmly, his tone and words droll.

Darion watched the old mans eyes drift over to regard Thorne as he continued. "Though if it will get us somewhere in these talks then I suppose we'll humor you."

Mormont's wrinkled eyes turned back to Darion as he spoke. "The Targaryen's were the previous ruling family of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. Called the Dragon Lords of Old Valyria for the beasts they commanded and rode into battle. Using those dragons they conquered Westeros and ruled over it for close to three hundred years now, their dynasty coming to a close with the Mad King, Aerys Targaryen, and his son, the Crown Prince Raeghar Targaryen." He explained slowly.

The icy Stark chose that moment to re-enter the conversation. "It all started with Raeghar at the tourney at Harrenhall. After winning the joust, he rode right past his wife and crowned my sister the Queen of Love and Beauty. An honor that should have gone to his wife, Elia Martell."

Darion's sea green eyes went alight with a mischievous gleam at his words. "Ooh, scandalous gossip for all the other nobles I'm sure. Surely your sister had something to brag about after that." He joked lightly, a small grin lighting up his face.

Stark's stormy grey eyes only darkened though. "Oh yes, she had something to brag about when Raeghar kidnapped her and raped her a few months later." He spat out, much to the Dragonborn's own shock.

'Wonderful! I've now touched a nerve! Good job, me!' He berated himself, his grin ebbing away and giving into a deep frown.

"Sorry, didn't know about that." He apologized, though his words might as well have been lost in the wind as the Stark man only scowled at his words. Sensing the growing animosity, Jeor coughed loudly, garnering the groups attention once more.

"He's right, you know," His wrinkled eyes glancing between himself and the dark haired man. "Benjen here has lost more to the Targaryen's madness than anyone else here in this room. Likely the whole castle. After his sister's kidnapping, his elder brother Brandon, rode south to demand Lyanna's return."

Benjen's mouth twisted into a grimace, likely from having to relieve the memories of those long bygone days.

"The Mad King had him imprisoned and then bid our lord father to come to Kings Landing and answer for 'his sons crimes.' Aerys meant to have them executed on the spot. Father demanded a Trial by Combat and was burnt alive anyway. Brandon strangled himself to death trying to save him." He bit out, a breath of steamed air leaving his nose as he exhaled.

Taking over the flow of the tale again, Jeor continued. "Afterwards he called for the heads of Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark, then wards of the Warden of the East and Lord of the Eyrie, Jon Arryn. He refused and so the realm was torn asunder." His eyes roaming over to the knight that stood beside himself, Mormont bade him to speak.

"The War of the Usurper was a success for the rebels. Robert Baratheon marched on the Trident and slew the Crown Prince in single combat. He then marched on Kings Landing to end the Targaryen line. Upon arrival, he was presented the bodies of little Aegon and young Rhaenys by the traitor, Tywin Lannister. I remember being there, you know." The dour man recalled, his eyes staring back at him physically, but looking past them all entirely as though he too was reliving that horrid day.

"Aegon's head had been dashed against a wall and was unrecognizable save a few tufts of silver hair and his sister had been stabbed so much she might as well have been a pin cushion. Their mother didn't fare so well either. She had been raped to death by Tywin's mad dog, Ser Gregor Clegane." He told breathlessly. The tale was haunting to Darion in a way.

'The level's of depravity people as a whole can sink too is . . . often disturbing.' Darion thought darkly, fighting to suppress a shudder at the tale. While he did enjoy a good fight from time to time their was just something about the murder of children the made him queasy.

"Were they ever punished?"

Thorne snorted derisively at his question. "No, they never were. If I remember correctly, the Usurper's words were 'I see no babes, only dragonspawn.' He said that to Ned Stark just before I was sent to the Wall."

Darion clicked his teeth at Thorne's response. Pushing his body off of the cold, stone bricked wall he grasped the haft of the icy spear behind him.

"Well, I can see why everyone outside was so nervous around me now," He started slowly, bringing the long spear around front where they could all see it clearly. Stabbing the butt end into the floor, the pommel ringing as it hit the grey stone.

"It's only right, I suppose, that I tell you my story now. Though first . . . tell me? What do make of this spear?" Darion asked calmly, his right hand gesturing to the weapon in question.

Thorne merely shook his graying head with a scowl on his face. "This some kind of trick? It's just a damn piece of ice that hasn't melted yet." Looking around the room with searching eyes he could see that both Mormont and Stark were staying silent, their eyes narrowed as they studied himself and the ice-coated weapon.

Giving a mirthless chuckle, he spoke. "That's what I initially thought as well. Yet it held up excellently to my warhammer when struck. You've seen it, right? A massive, black and green glowing maul is kind of hard to miss." He said patronizingly.

"Get to the point." Thorne growled, his hand reaching back down to his weapon beneath his cloak yet again. A toothy smile lighting up his face, Darion obliged.

"A creature was wielding it. One as blue as the ice that coats this spear. It wore blackened chainmail and leather armor, its face and skin gaunt and taut across its bones. Aside from its deep blue eyes, it also commanded a legion of undead to do its bidding in the hunt for your men. This was all just a few miles from your Wall mind you." He explained, his body turning to the side and hand pointing out towards the northeast.

"Fairly close to the edge of that massive forest of yours actually."

The disgraced knight surged forward now, his weathered face only inches from his own now, despite Mormont's calls for peace.

"You think us all fools, imposter? That we would all fall for your little wives tale?" He breathed hatefully, his black eyes boring into Darion's own with a seething anger that rolled beneath the surface like the waves of an ocean storm. A whimsical idea popping into his head, Darion smiled widely.

"Why yes, Ser Alliser, you do seem the sort to fall for a foolish wives tale."

His reaction was instantaneous, the sound of a steel blade scraping against the leather bindings of its scabbard ringing through the air. The Lord Commander's commands for the disobedient knight to stand down going unbidden. The only thing stopping the conflict being the shards of ice that flew through the solar in a flurry of cold shrapnel.

Jeor, Benjen, and even Thorne, all stood there staring in disbelief at Darion as he twirled the crystalline spear in his hands idly, the icicle like weapon unharmed entirely, whilst Ser Alliser's castle-forged blade lay in ruin. The shards of its steel frozen to ice and shattered along the walls and floor.

"**Fus."** He whispered, the single word of power releasing a small wave of light blue, ethereal energy that swept Thorne's feet up and pushed him against the solar walls violently. His body crashing against the brick wall with a loud thud and a crack from within his very body.

Looking back to Benjen and the Lord Commander's shocked and stupefied faces Darion grinned ever wider, his mind beginning to give way into his mania again.

"There are quite clearly forces at work that are outside of your understandings. You try to rationalize them and make sense of it all, yet when one declares something a truth in their own mind, they believe it. With all of their heart." Darion stated, his sea green eyes roaming over his captive audience again.

"Yet that truth is almost always missing something. Or in your cases, the entire picture, since you choose not to think outside the box. I'm not one of your Targaryen's, nor am I someone who prances around trying to be one. My power is far greater than what your Dragon Lords could ever hope to surpass. You've seen a taste of it first hand just now." Darion said proudly, the rest of them still too shaken to make a move against himself.

Nodding mentally in self satisfaction at their actions, Darion flipped the icy spear upside down in his hand, the point towards the smooth stone floor. Stabbing downwards suddenly and swiftly, the blade embedded deeply into the stone, the floor cracking apart like a spider web from the force.

"Yet I need your help. Just the same as you will need mine."

It was the Lord Commander Mormont that found his voice first out of them all, his face a mask of stoicism and devoid of emotion. "Explain." Came his brief reply.

"I and my fetching companion's, all come from another world, one not entirely too dissimilar from your own. But one where power is power and not just a shadow on the wall." Darion said airily, his eyes now hardening as made to continue.

"The portal that we used to cross into yours is now overrun with our ancestors, all risen from the grave by a force I know not. That portal is our one way ticket home, but to get their will mean cleaving our way through thousands, if not millions of undead, and that's not counting our homelands being inter-woven through the portal now." He revealed, Benjen's stormy grey eyes narrowed slightly at his words.

"You need our help to end whatever's making the dead rise so you can leave." He supposed. Darion nodded towards the older man, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips.

"You can catch on quick," He nodded appreciatively. "My people are on the other side of that portal, and their about to be embroiled in a war I should have killed in its crib years ago. And every second we delay could be another that that war grows near. Time works differently in parallel worlds and planes of existence, I'm afraid. A second here could very well be a year back home." Darion trailed off, his mind becoming distracted momentarily, a trait they were all beginning to notice, he was sure.

The Lord Commander of the Nights Watch seemed to blink his eyes rapidly as he breathed in deeply, exhaling as he spoke. "What your asking, is something I've been trying to do for over a decade now. The people of Westeros have forgotten about the importance of the Nights Watch."

"My brother hasn't, the Starks and the rest of the northern houses haven't yet." Benjen said aloud, the older man nodding along with the younger's words.

"Aye, they haven't. Even the Reeds of Greywater Watch still remember the importance of the watch." He agreed quietly. Darion's eyes danced between the pair briefly, his mind deciding a course of action quickly.

"Good, then we'll start small. Gather the North to your cause one by one and then move on to the rest." Darion said boldly, though Jeor only shook his head in exasperation.

"With what proof do you hope to rally the northern lords?" The old bear stated calmly, his words giving the Last Dragonborn pause. His eyebrows raising slightly, Darion turned to the spear that still stood embedded in the smooth stone. Giving it light knock of his hand as it wiggled slightly.

"I believe this will be proof enough for the northern lords, and if not, then certainly enough to convince your brother," He said with a pointed look towards Benjen Stark. "Especially if it comes from you. Better from a familiar face than a stranger."

The Stark man only nodded grimly in response, Mormont doing the same along with him. "Perhaps, though the South will need more than a icy spear. They'll need-" He started.

"A body," He finished quickly. "I guessed as much. I suppose I could search for one while I'm out flying on Durnehviir." Darion offered, though his words made Jeor cock his head in obvious question, the balding old man peering at him curiously.

"Yes . . . They would need one. Though it feel's like you have another purpose for going back out there." The old man said slowly, trying to get a read on the younger man.

Taking his hand off of the crystalline spear, Darion made for the solar's doorway, his steel plated hand resting against the near ancient wood. "You'd be right. One of my friends is still stuck somewhere out there in the wastes. I'm going out to find him and bring him back."

He paused for a moment, his lips pursed as he looked back at the two. "I still have no idea what they are or where they come from," Darion admitted, almost ashamedly to their ears. "Any idea what I'll find out there?"

"Aside from shadowcats, dire wolves, bears, mammoths, or wildlings? Nothing much I'd imagine." Came Benjen's sarcastic reply, to which Darion looked crossly at him with narrowed eyes.

"Har har, you know what I mean."

Shaking his old, weary head the Lord Commander answered again. "They are likely to be wights, the undead you speak of. The other ones," He trailed off, looking over at the spear with a cautious gaze. "Are undoubtedly the Others, as some call them, most just call them the White Walkers. They haven't been seen for an age or more. No advice we can give you without giving the Maester some time to do some digging."

Darion's lips formed into a thin line at this, not exactly the answer he had been hoping for, but at least he had a name for the creatures now.

"So be it."

Opening the heavy wooden door now, the entryway flooding with the grey light of the snowy sky overhead, Darion paused again. "And Mormont? You and Benjen seem honorable enough, not counting additional company of course," Darion said with a lopsided grin, looking back towards Ser Alliser whom merely glared back at him hatefully whilst clutching his right shoulder.

His grin faded away swiftly as a deadly serious expression took root over his face. His eyes staring directly into the Lord Commanders own. "But if anyone harms a single hair on Aela's head upon my return, I will burn everyone in this castle alive and raze it to the ground."

The 997th Lord Commander of the Nights Watch's face hardened visibly as his eyes darkened considerably.

"Is that a threat, Stormblade?"

Darion smiled ruefully at him as he spoke. "No. No, that's a promise." He said with determination, the heavy wooden door closing behind him as he exited the solar.

Jeor let out an uneasy breath to try and calm his nerves. His old, wrinkled brown eyes looking over to see Ser Alliser glaring both at himself, Benjen, and the door through which Darion had exited.

"Promise!" The overfed crow cawed from his large shoulder. Jeor's eyes glanced over to meet his First Ranger's as they all sat there in collective silence.

"Promise!"

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**Oooookkkaaaayyy then! Yep, this was a pretty lengthy chapter and fairly dialogue heavy as well, though I hope I fleshed out the respective characters of the Nights Watch out to at least a decent degree.**

**Ser Alliser was a bit of a conundrum to write, truth be told, as we all know that he fought on the side of the Targaryen's back in Robert's Rebellion so he was obviously Pro-Targaryen. Darion has the looks of one (minus the eyes) and the dragon to boot so I feel like he would normally think of Darion as a Targaryen like everybody else.**

**Unless he knew what the royal family looked like.**

**That's why I had him be the one to say that he wasn't, sprinkled a little bit of resent towards Darion for giving an old man hope at seeing a white haired person riding a dragon and you got someone that hates you!**

**Mormont and Benjen were both a challenge though. Never really wrote anyone as 'honorable' besides Ralof of course. But I'll definitely get the chance to practice as we progress forward.**

**Oh yeah, Durnehviir more or less told Darion that he could still fly up and drop him from the sky, btw. The more you know!**

**Anywho, hope you all enjoyed! If there is any questions I might have missed regarding this chapter, then feel free to either p.m. me or leave a review if ya feel like it!**

**P.S. Gonna try my best to get another out before Christmas!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Yo! I suppose it would be an early merry Christmas at this point, eh? Likely won't have another out until after New Years but hopefully this will tide you all over for now. But enough about that, I hope you all are enjoying your holiday breaks right now! Cause I certainly know I am!**

**Also, thanks to all of you who reviewed last chapter! Really, thank you, it means the world to me!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or content from Game of Thrones or the Elder Scrolls Series.**

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Chapter 7: Madness

The flames rose up in the fire pit. The heat wafting off of the flaming tongues felt rejuvenating to his ancient, wrinkled skin, warming his old bones with a heat he had not felt in many a year.

Sitting down carefully on his old wooden chair, Maester Aemon smiled. It was a smile of satisfaction to himself, though to others a tad disconcerting, given the state of his near century old teeth. The gnashing molars and fangs whittled down and yellowed with age. He would have too resort to humming his food here soon, he mused.

As the logs of pine wood cracked apart and split in the fireplace, his head turned to the sound of shifting and rustling of cloth and fur, he smiled wider now. A kind smile gracing his weary face.

"I was beginning to wonder if you had went and died on us, my dear." He joked, his voice coming out as a hoarse and scratchy sound.

Although his pale milky blue eyes could not see the woman anymore, he could see her in his mind huffing indignantly as she sat upright, the thought alone brought a small chuckle to escape his throat.

"Where am I, old man?" She asked, her tone one of abject caution. Choosing to ignore the woman's borderline rude question, he answered calmly.

"Safe behind the Wall and inside Castle Black. The home of the Nights Watch." Maester Aemon said simply in response. His words must have shocked the woman into silence as she sat atop her bed in his quarters unmoving and still. Even her breathing seemed to slow and quieten, he noted.

'Though the shock of waking up in a foreign land and greeted by the faces of strangers would be quite surprising indeed.' He thought with a crooked smile.

Two days. It had been two days now since the one known as Darion Stormblade had landed in Castle Black astride a dragon, the beast looking as ancient as the world itself. The boy had acted every bit the dragon rider his own ancestors had been said to be. And looked it too. If what the Lord Commander had told him a few days prior had been true.

The memories of the recent events had come flooding back like a rapid tidal wave in his aged mind. He remembered that he had been elated, no, ecstatic at the sound of the creatures massive wingbeats as they buffeted the air down into the castle whilst flying overhead. He had thought, with some vain and childish hope, that someone of the Blood of Old Valyria had truly done the impossible and brought a dragon back into the world. That he would be reunited with his kin once more.

Alas, it was not to be. The newcomer had revealed himself as a stranger to their lands and claimed superiority over himself and his own dragon riding ancestors. The thought alone was mildly chafing to his mind. Pride in his family and the legacy they had left behind were largely all he had to cling too nowadays.

'Though he backed up his bold words with strength, did he not?' He thought with a rueful smile, his balding head of wispy tufts of silver hair turning to look in the woman's general direction.

"You need not fear, my dear. Besides, what harm can a blind old man do anyways?" He joked again, trying to lighten the mood in the gloomy tower room somewhat.

His words seemed to have an affect on her cautious disposition however, as heard the sound of her bare feet touching the cold stone floor with a 'plop' sound.

'And here we . . go.' Maester Aemon thought with a large, shit-eating grin lighting up his wrinkled face. The reaction he had been patiently waiting for happened almost instantly, the young woman practically growling in anger like a caged animal at her . . . lack of dress.

The furs and leather coverings now ripped away, Aemon could hear her snarl at him angrily and practically feel the murderous intent of her glare on the side of his head.

"WHERE. ARE. MY. CLOTHES. OLD. MAN." She ground out, the words dripping from her lips like dragonfire, searing and hateful. Laughing openly now at her rage, the Maester calmly raised a wrinkled hand to gesture over to what should be the corner of the room, he hoped.

"I placed your clothes over in the corner, my dear, atop the basket I believe," He explained, though she was already up and moving across the room as soon as the word 'corner' left his lips. "Though I assure you, that as a Maester of the Citadel, that I only removed your garments purely for medical reasons."

She snorted in derision at his explanation, whilst putting on something heavy and plated with cold steel or iron, likely her boots, he thought to himself.

"Medical reasons, huh? Well if I had any wounds then they'd be pretty damn obvious." She said lowly, her tone clearly agitated and angered. Aemon's eyebrows rose in question at her words.

"Oh? Then perhaps your companion should have said where your wounds were." He bit back playfully. This was easily the most fun he had had in years, he imagined.

She seemed to grumble something in response, just low enough and under her breath to where even his own heightened hearing could not pick up the unintelligible words, though still, the old man grinned through it all. Savoring his little victory in their brief verbal spar.

"Still doesn't mean you had to leave me undressed on a bed, for what? A few hours? A night?"

The Maester shook his ancient head wearily as he corrected her wonderings. "Two days now." The woman seemed to stop briefly as she mouthed the words back to him in shock at the revelation. Hearing her audible surprise, Maester Aemon nodded now.

"Your armor, the leather, what little their was," He teased with a small chuckle, stopping when he felt her pointed gaze returned to look in his direction. "and the fur had all been soaked through with water. Some of it had been heat dried mind you, but even slightly wet clothing in this weather simply won't do."

The fiery woman let out a slow ragged breath at his words, the tension seemingly leaving her voice and body. "Then I am in your debt, sir . . . ?"

"Aemon. Maester Aemon."

"Maester Aemon," She corrected herself quickly, swallowing a lump in her throat as she spoke. "And I'm sorry for thinking that of you." She apologized, her voice slightly shaky. The old man nodded at her apology.

'Good,' He thought to himself. 'Seems she does have some refinement under that fiery exterior after all.'

"Oh there is nothing to forgive, my dear. Besides, you've given a dying old man more entertainment with your antics in the span of a minute than most of my years here at Castle Black." He said with a crooked, toothy smile.

The darkened room went quiet for a bit after that, the only sounds being that of the wood burning and cracking apart in the fireplace, the shuffling of the woman whilst she dressed, and the old Maester's own haggard breathing as he sat their staring back at the roaring fire, his milky blue eyes unseeing and blind.

"I suppose it's only fair that you know my name . . ." She started, only for Aemon to wave her words away whilst cutting her off abruptly. "Your name is Aela. Or so we've been told by your traveling companion."

"Who dropped me off then? Ralof?" She asked curiously, her voice and tone hopeful at the sound of the mans name, Maester Aemon noted idly. Most curious indeed.

"No, the Jarl, Darion Stormblade brought you to us two days ago now," He replied candidly, his answer serving to make the woman deflate internally a bit, if the almost inaudible huff of air that passed her lips was any indication.

'Ever stranger, isn't she?' He thought quietly, his old, but shrewd mind whirling around like a swarm of angry bees trying to piece together the puzzle that tied the newcomers together. It was almost like piecing together little tidbits of gossip and rumors back at home in Kings Landing, he thought somberly.

"You sound disappointed, child."

Aela shifted awkwardly at his probing statement before opening her mouth to reply. "Not disappointed or anything. It's just . . . complicated." She finished quietly. A wave of embers flying up from the pit as the log collapsed down into ashes.

The old man was silent for a moment before he cocked his head to gaze back in her direction, his face one of wisdom. "As is all of life. Though sometimes we tend to overcomplicate things in our own minds and think them impossible. As insurmountable as a snow-capped mountain range looming in the distance."

Aemon's gaze turned back to the heat and light of the fire, letting its warmth wash over his wrinkled face. "The answer to your problems may very well be simpler than you may think," He continued, not stopping to pause even as Aela seemed to be taken aback by his words. "Yes, I can tell there is a conflict in you. The way you speak, your mannerisms when spoken too . . . You tend to either learn these things at court or die of betrayal."

"How do you know?" She asked briefly, her voice commanding and a hint of iron creeping into her words.

'Getting defensive now are we?' Maester Aemon thought again, quietly analyzing her reactions, words, and mannerisms bit by bit.

"I don't. Though, I could make some educated guesses." He offered happily, to which Aela huffed again. "Or you can keep your mouth shut." She snarled again, to which Aemon only frowned deeply now.

Seeing that he wouldn't be able to glean any more information from the woman, he let the subject drop as they fell back into an uneasy silence once more.

"He promised to burn everyone in the castle alive, you know. If we had harmed you while he was away at any rate." He told calmly, his words serving to elicit a small amount of shock from the now dressed woman.

"And? Would you have harmed me?"

Maester Aemon snorted at her question, a small smile etching it's way back across his weathered lips, as his milky eyes stared deep into the recesses of the fire pit, the flames dancing like street performers in his irises.

"I am a Maester of the Citadel, bound in service to treat the wounds of any man or woman here at Castle Black. You would have been safe from me, but the other men? Hardened veterans of the Nights Watch? They would have took you for a wildling and slew you on the spot."

Pausing momentarily, Aemon Targaryen exhaled a huff of the cold air as his smile returned full force now. "In a way, you could say that the Jarl saved your life again by intimidating the leaders of the Nights Watch. The fear of dragonfire is a very potent thing in Westeros."

Aela seemed to take his words into consideration, as the old man listened close to hear her breathing go quiet and her armor and body clanked gently against the cold, grey stone walls.

"Did he know of this fear?"

Maester Aemon pursed his lips at her simple question, thinking carefully before responding. Any answer here could mean vastly different outcomes, he knew, but thankfully it looked as though he wouldn't be the one to answer that question today.

As the old man's ears pricked up at the sounds of heavy, mighty wingbeats that filled the air outside his quarters and the panicked shouts of the men of the Nights Watch following soon afterwards.

"It would seem that the answer to your question waits outside in the courtyard, my dear." He replied simply, his voice raspy like the raking of autumn leaves. Aela made no reply in return, the woman hardly even making a sound as she walked across the room and exiting out the door.

The heavy wooden door closing behind her with a loud thud that reverberated through the walls of his quarters, leaving the lonely Targaryen Maester alone in his room. Trapped, blind, frail, and a prisoner to his own minds thoughts.

Hearing the panicked shouts begin to quieten and cease outside, the old Maester smiled wistfully.

"Perhaps it's time I had a word with this Targaryen-look-alike." He said to himself, his words only heard by himself as he sat next to the blazing fireplace, listening to the word crack and splinter as it burned.

* * *

'I hate silence sometimes.' He thought to himself quietly, lifting his hand up again to poke the fork back down into the 'delicious' convection that sat in the bowl before him. Taking a bite of the stewed chicken and dumplings, Darion had to fight the urge to spit the food back out into the wooden bowl.

'No, I amend that. I hate awkward silences in particular. And food that needs more salt and pepper.' He added mentally to himself. His sea green eyes flitting down to the ill-looking gruel in the bowl and up to glance at the rest of the mess hall.

The hall was abuzz with the chatting and raucous laughter of the men of Nights Watch during their dinner gathering. The hall of the small castle filled to the brim with dozens upon dozens of warm bodies, serving to heat the normally cold chamber up tenfold. Though all of the japes, laughter, and good cheer seemed to form an invisible circle around their table, he noted with a unreadable expression, his face as placid and calm as the motionless waters of a mountain lake.

He didn't really like to be feared per se. Having the fear of one man was all fine and dandy, but if you got a group of people who fear you and feel that either your too much of a threat to let live or growing weaker . . .

'Well, let's just say that people like to try and collect on the dues they feel owed to them for any, past grievances.' He thought quietly, his mind beginning to wheel itself away into that dark, damp place he often wandered too. Setting the two-pronged fork back down on the table, he crossed his arms against his chest, watching the other hall's occupants try their level best to put his existence out of sight and mind.

There was a reason why he had always tried to earn the loyalty of any person that followed himself after all. Compassion inspired loyalty and devotion in people just the same as being honorable and just could inspire awe and reverence, but even those methods had their own unique faults. Being too honorable could lead to yourself being too predictable and would likely find yourself betrayed and killed by someone you trusted. Largely because said person would usually expect others to play by the same rules as themselves, which was usually far from the case in normal every day life.

No, a balance of the two was needed, of both fear and loyalty that is. To hold the power in your hands to strike someone low and bloody but instead raise them up and make them better than what they once were, and if someone rises against you, then you end the threat mercilessly and swiftly.

'Speak softly, but carry a big stick.' He recalled wistfully, a saying he had heard way back in his youth in the outskirts of Wayrest and had taken it too heart ever since.

He would never win the respect or loyalty of the men surrounding them, he knew, well, not without a few years of consistent interaction at any rate. Besides, even if he did have all the time in the world, the frosty, glowering face of the red haired huntress across from him would certainly thwart any efforts on his part.

'I mean, by Azura's freckled tits, she hasn't even poked at her food yet!' He thought bemusedly with a raised eyebrow, his eyes flitting back over to Aela's own with a grin over his lips.

"You know if you don't eat up then you'll starve and freeze to death outside. Especially with all that shivering and energy your wasting by not being properly dressed." He chided playfully, picking up his fork again and making to finish his own bowl.

"I'm not hungry." Came her simple, indignant reply.

Swallowing a bite of the steaming hot, broth-coated chicken, Darion merely cocked his head slightly in mock puzzlement. "Oh? Well you will certainly be hungry on our way down to Winterfell, so I'd advise you eat up,"

Stabbing the prongs back down into a large dumpling, he held it up to eye level above the bowl, looking between the dumpling and the Huntress with an amused gleam in his eyes.

"I mean, their food may look like hog-slop but it's not too bad. Just missing the right spices is all," Darion explained calmly, his eyes now glancing across the hall to one of the few kegs that lined the stone walls with a deep frown.

"Though I would advise to stay away from the liquor though. They can't seem to brew a good ale to save their lives." He joked again, trying once more to lighten the Companions sullen and dour mood, though still she seemed unmoved by his words.

"Your just spoiled and pampered like a milk-drinker," She sneered with a shake of her head. "Tell me, did you sit here and enjoy your creature comforts while Ralof was still out there?"

Swallowing his mouthful of the hot dumpling, Darion set the pronged fork down beside the wooden bowl gently. Leaning back to sit upright on his bench, he looked Aela in the eye with a stern and unmoving gaze, his sea green eyes never leaving her emerald ones.

"Pampered? Really? That's the best you've got? Spoiled is just a fact about myself nowadays, but don't you dare even think that I didn't try my damndest to find Ralof." He ground out, his voice deepening with his anger.

Aela only huffed at this, looking back at him with an incredulous and disbelieving look. "Then where is he? If you tried your 'damndest' oh mighty Dragonborn, then where is the Harbinger? Where is Ralof?"

Darion was the first to look away this time, his eyes glancing back down in shame and self-loathing as a sigh passed his lips. "For two days and two nights, I rode and flew beyond the Wall searching for him. I checked everywhere I could think to look. From the rocky eastern shore to the frozen western shore, back to the dead pine forest where I fought that creature, the White Walker, and even back where we had landed."

He paused for a moment, his voice sounding far away as though he wasn't even speaking to her anymore, as though he sat alone in the cavernous mess hall with only the echoes of his voice for company.

"I saw them again, you know."

Aela's gaze softened slightly, her gaze turning more to scrutiny as he spoke. "Where we landed, I mean. Thousands of them, all coated in frost bitten flesh and the leathers they once wore in life, clutching archaic weaponry in their cold, dead hands. They were countless beyond number as we flew overhead. Yet still, their numbers grew ever more as more and more poured out through Hermaeus Mora's portal."

Darion continued to speak, his voice sounding faraway as the words came pouring out in that clammy, dead tone of his. A sort of sound that shouldn't belong to any sane or living man, lest they had lived through some odd terror or horror.

He closed his eyes with an inhale of the warming air of the mess hall, his eyes cracking open, Darion shook his head slowly. "Aela . . . I'm powerful. Very much so, in fact. Some even believe I'm supposed to be the reincarnation of Shor or at least an avatar of him. That I'm a sort of all-mighty demigod who can do no wrong."

Exhaling a shaky breath, he continued. "But this? It was always just one person I had to beat, not the entire population of two millennia old continents. Add on the fact that Winterhold is probably going to be invaded in a year's time . . ." He shook his head again, his gaze turning to look out one of the mess hall's few windows, the glass and color distorted and discolored with age.

"I don't know if I'm gonna be able to pull this one off. Not alone at least. Divines, I wish Ralof was here right now."

The Huntress clicked her tongue as she replied. "You did kill Alduin. The World-Eater, the Harbinger of the End Times, turned the tide of the war for Skyrim's independence, destroyed the Dark Brotherhood, stopped an ancient vampire clan from blotting put the sun and dooming Nirn, and killed countless other things over the years. So why does a few hundred dead men make you cower in fear?" Aela growled, her hand shooting out to grip the Dragonborn by the cloth of his long, woolen shirt.

"We may not be on the best of terms, but the Darion I know, the one that Ralof would always tell tales of, he wouldn't cower and quake in his boots like some fucking milk-maid!" She roared, her fury at his apparent weakness growing with each word she spoke.

Darion's own eyes seemed to harden as her harsh words snapped himself back into reality and out of his stupor. Frowning, he reached up to grasp Aela's hand and drag it away from his chest. The silver ring adorning his ring finger touching her bare, sun-tanned skin and causing a loud sizzling noise to split forth on contact.

Aela recoiled with a curse, clutching her hand in shock, her own emerald green eyes going from the ring on his finger and then back to herself. Her face seeming to go pale slightly as the gears turned in her fiery red head.

'Yeah, I'm not the only person here with something to tell.' He thought with a rueful smile, his eyes darkening again as he watched.

"While we're on the topic of story telling, you could deign to enlighten me on why your body reacts violently to silver." He said with a pointed look to the woman seated across from him.

Leaning forward on the table, his arms crossed against his chest, the food they had been dining on all but forgotten now, pushed to the side lonely and abandoned. Aela made no reply, her mouth only agape like that of a fish gasping for air on the muddy beach of a river.

Darion chuckled mirthlessly at her lack of response, his own eyes looking back at her face coldly. "Come now Aela, my dear Huntress . . . we both know that silver only reacts to two things in nature." He chided, his right hand raising up his index finger.

"One, the undead. Various though they may be, all of them share a pain when touched with the metal due to it's pure properties and innate magical nature. And since your not a brown, gaunt and decaying corpse, your certainly not one." He joked lightly, with a tilt of his head, his face hardening once again right after.

"That only leaves one thing," He paused, a second finger rising up to join its neighbor on his bare hand. "Two, the cursed. More specifically for your case, a werebeast. No one would ever dare question the honor of the Companions of course, they were so honorable and just, true paragons of might and virtue! People that could do no wrong! They never would have questioned you directly, never would have asked why the howls would tear through the nights in Whiterun, or of the mutilated bodies left in the wake of your guilds contracts. But I did."

Lowering his hand back down onto the table with a smug grin, Darion continued. "I've been gathering information on your guilds little secret for a few years now, back when Karliah first started hearing the hushed whispers of frightened explorers and travelers stopping by Winterhold to trade. Your physical and lack of verbal reaction only further cement my assumption."

Cocking his head to the side again, he smiled, a smug, self satisfied smile lighting up his handsome face. One that made the Companion feel like a mouse caught in the paws of a sly cat, if only briefly. Snorting loudly, Aela glared back at his smug grin.

"And just what are you going to do about it? We're not exactly in Skyrim anymore, besides that, what could you even do to me? Ralof would flay you alive if you had harmed me." She stated openly, likely believing that she had him at a checkmate in their little verbal spar.

Darion pursued his lips in a look of mock confusion before he spoke. "Oh I don't know, a lot of things I would imagine. But you misunderstand me, I have no wish to harm you in any sort of way, not even after you slept with my best friend. On my own private ship no less."

The ball had been dropped, and there was no picking it back up, he knew. Perhaps he shouldn't have said it like that? Maybe a little gentler and in an understanding way? She did look pretty shocked and panicked after all.

A face-splitting, toothy grin lit up his face in that moment as he reveled in Aela's momentary surprise.

'Nah.'

"W-w-what?! No, no, we didn't . . . I would never," She stammered, trying and failing to come up with a single coherent sentence. Beginning to feel a wave of disgust well up inside himself, Darion's upper lip curled slightly as he waved her useless words away.

"Oh save it! Save that, and whatever twisted reason you did so in the first place! And if it was to get back at me, like I suspect, then know that I hope you are happy with your choices!" He spat out, the words pouring forth like the venom of a serpent.

Aela's mouth closed at his harsh words, her own head turning to look away from himself and back out across the noisy hall, the other buildings occupants still drinking, laughing, and making merry at their own tables as though only they truly existed in the world. Even the Lord Commander sat quietly eating and talking with his lieutenant's and advisors completely oblivious to their little drama play, he noted idly.

'Maybe I should have taken Mormont's offer and dined with him and Benjen instead.' He mused to himself quietly, dismissing the thought almost as quickly as it came with the realization that he then would have had to endure Thorne's presence once more.

Shifting his jaw back and forth angrily, Darion addressed the red haired woman again as his thoughts refocused. "No. No, what I want to know is if Ralof was a werebeast as well. Cause if he was, then that means that he is doomed to be a plaything to Hircine, one of his precious hounds," He ground out the daedric prince's name in mild loathing.

Didn't really help the prince's case in his eyes if he played with a man's life for wanting control over his own ability. Just another person that played with people's lives like a few pawns in chess.

"Cause if so, then he is forever cut off from Sovngarde. A daedric prince's power is great and far reaching. An aedra? Not so much. And given the fact that the next ten square miles surrounding that portal are filled with wights as far as the eye can see, then he is likely dead. And their will be no glory for him, no songs, no revelry, nor the companionship of his fellow kinsmen, just the constant need to hunt, kill, and survive." He said again, his eyes glaring back at Aela's still obscured face as she looked away from himself.

"And it will have been your guild's thrice-damned curse that screwed him over in the end."

Finally unable to take any more of his tongue lashing, Aela stood from her seat silently, her face still looking away from his own all the while, her emerald green eyes unable to meet his searing gaze. She left the table then, her body moving across the hall wordlessly and slipping past the many brothers of the Watch making nary a sound.

Looking away from her retreating form, Darion glanced back down to the table, his mind weary as a ragged sigh past his lips. As he had been speaking he had felt a familiar rage begin to fill his being, that emotion of self-rightcheous anger serving to fuel every venom laced word he'd spoken. But now? After everything had been said and done?

'Regret and shame . . . why? Why should I feel these things when it was she that was in the wrong?' He wondered to himself, his sea green eyes trailing the grain of the old pine wood table as he sat there quietly amid the ruckus of the mess hall.

These weren't feelings he had felt very often. Usually he would just laugh, joke, and fight his way through it all, dragons, vampires, daedra, thalmor, it was always the same to him. Nothing ever seemed quite so important or life threatening when you could just take a step back and re-evaluate the situation. Yet why did the recollection of his own words bring him such a sense of guilt?

Sighing lowly, his face somber, Darion glanced sidelong at the bowl of chicken and dumplings as it grew colder and colder ever steadily. Reaching out, he pulled the bowl of gruel and his utensil closer to himself, forcing himself to resume eating. It wouldn't do if he fell prey to not taking his own advice after all.

Stuffing a plump, broth-coated dumpling into his mouth, Darion's eyes glanced across the hall again. Trying to find where Aela had stalked off too. Instead, his eyes settled on one of the hall's other occupants. A middle aged man, with short cropped black hair and a wiry beard to match, laugh loudly at some jape as he stood from his table. His cheeks were flushed and red from liquor, he noted quietly as the man staggered and stumbled about, tracing his intended path with his eyes he had to fight the urge not to groan.

'Even when trying to be alone and miserable, she manages to get herself in some sort of trouble.' He thought with a roll of his eyes, moving to finish off the food in his bowl.

Aela was standing next to one of the kegs of ale he had jokingly warned her about earlier, a large tankard clutched in her grasp, slamming back the vile liquor one after another. Refilling the mug straight from the tap itself and uncaring to the on goings of the men surrounding herself.

The man had reached her now. He was stopped right in front of Aela, cutting off any room of escape past the kegs and looked to be talking obnoxiously and probably rudely, if the Huntress' shifting facial expressions were anything to go off of.

He smirked as he sat the dual pronged fork back down to rest on the table. 'Poor fool doesn't even know what he's getting himself into.' He thought with a throaty chuckle.

Watching as the man began to paw at her arm boldly, before moving to graze the Companions right breast with his meaty fingers. Darion watched with great amusement as Aela snarled like the beast inside herself and brought her tankard crashing down into the man's skull viscously, sending him sprawling out on the cold stone floor.

Shaking his head with a grin, Darion tipped the bowl up, drinking up what was left of the broth in his bowl. Hearing shouts of shock and surprise, he glanced sidelong over at the few men whom had stood up to try and question the Huntress.

Aela seemed to say something in reply as she swigged the last bit of ale in her tankard. Whatever she said must have offended the newcomers, as they both seemed to be rearing to fight now, uncaring of whom their opponent was or that their commander was trying to restore order from his high table.

Gripping the wooden bowl in his right hand limply, he flipped it over to point towards the floor, making to throw it across the mess hall like a discus.

'What better way to say sorry then a bar fight?' Darion thought gleefully, the bowl crashing into the back of one of the Nights Watchmen heads, the bowl hitting with an earsplitting crack as they cursed and shouted in pain.

Jumping atop his own table with the agility of a saber cat, Darion let slip a quick reply.

"**Wuld Nah Kest!"**

* * *

"Are you quite pleased with yourself, my lord?"

Darion only laughed at the old man's words, taking them in as a sort of dry humor the old codger was likely known for.

"Oh, immensely."

The old Maester seemed to stop in place for a moment, a huff of air passing out his mouth and over his few pointed teeth. "Good, if you so like to break and dislocate a man's bones then perhaps you'd like to help me set them back in place? If you so adore violence, that is."

Darion rolled his eyes at the ancient man's subtle little trick, why was it that anyone long in the tooth had some way to make a younger man feel so childish? Is it just something they all just learn over time or something more?

Shaking off his own mental inquiry, he stepped forward, putting a hand on the Maester's left shoulder, guiding him gently towards the impromptu operating table set up in his chambers. Stepping away, Darion made to grab a loose piece of leather from behind himself.

"You do know these guys were in the wrong, right? So why help them at all? I think leaving them a little broken and disfigured would serve as a nice little reminder whenever they look at a mirror." He said airily, to which Aemon snorted in response.

"Perhaps it would. At least for the ones with broken teeth, fingers, and arms. Rast here, would have been left lame and crippled for the rest of his life at the Wall." He explained calmly, his milky blue eyes turning from himself and back down to the table where the person in question laid, groaning and in blinding pain.

Darion glanced back down to the injury in particular with a frown of revulsion marring his face. Perhaps the old Maester did have a point after all. He doubted even a healing option would set that leg straight and if it did . . .

He cringed and shuddered at the imagining of the broken, jagged shin bone scraping against its other fragments and pieces, the bone having to go back through the skin in some places in order to fuse together again. It would be fucking painful no matter how you sliced it.

'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.' He thought with a shake of his head, moving to bring the strip of leather down into Rast's teeth.

If the drunken man was smart then he'd bite down on the strip with all his might, but then again, he had threatened to burn everyone at Castle Black alive if Aela had been harmed yet he'd tried to do so anyway. Something told him that brains simply weren't this guys strong suit.

Rast squirmed and struggled when the leather strip was forced into his mouth, causing Darion to have to hold the older man down with his body weight while the Maester worked behind him silently.

"So . . . do you usually get disobedient people like these ones?" He asked trying to break up the monotonous silence.

"People like yourself you mean? No, not often." He replied candidly, the sound of a pair of clashing together with a metallic snip filling the air, whilst Rast screamed in pain, his voice muffled by the unwanted gag.

Darion huffed in response, a show of mock hurt at the old mans words. "Ouch, low blow there Maester Aemon. Though you do know what I mean." He said, his voice beginning to be a tad exasperated. The old, white haired man must have picked up on the shift in his voice as he merely laughed lowly.

"Yes, many of the recruits the Nights Watch receives are the unwanted. The thieves, the murderers, the rapists, to name a few. Our numbers have dwindled to such a point that the thought of a willing volunteer is unheard off." He explained slowly, the blind Maester stepping into position below Rast's feet now, his wrinkled hand grasping the broken limb tightly.

"Hold on tightly."

Darion glanced up at the old man briefly, before grabbing Rast's torso strongly, his grip firm and unyielding as Maester Aemon yanked back on the drunk man's leg, hard. The bone snapping back into place with a sickening crunch as Rast screamed in pain through his gag.

Lifting up and off the man's body, Darion strode across the room to retrieve a roll of bandages, setting them down before the Maester as he worked. "So, what? You just live off of the generosity of the other nobles in the realm?"

The other man only nodded his head, his old wrinkled hands working quickly as they wrapped and bound the limb in place. Noticing the ancient scholar's non-verbal response, the Dragonborn turned around slowly, moving over to another of the men who sat in a chair across the room, warming by the Maester's crackling fireplace.

Rast's compatriot shrinked back into his wooden seat in abject terror as Darion moved ever closer to him. Seeing this, Darion rolled his eyes in exasperation again, his hands shooting out rapidly to seize the uncooperative man by his right shoulder and twisted hand.

Scowling, he gripped the dislocated digits tightly, yanking them back outwards into their proper places wordlessly as the man screamed in pain, cursing him and his entire family line all the while.

Rising up again, Darion turned back to walk back over to the Maester's side, a sarcastic remark already loaded on his lips. "No offense, but I can certainly see why their the unwanted of your kingdoms. I told them all to leave Aela alone under pain of death and yet they tried it anyway." He said quietly, shaking his head as a look of disappointment was draped over his still scowling face.

"And they will have learned from this experience then. I suspect that the overindulgence of the Watch's ale is what caused this incident." Aemon rationalized calmly, finally finishing with wrapping Rast's previously broken leg securely in its thick leather and linen bindings.

"More like lust and loneliness. The liquor only spurred it on in the end. You lot have your own vows to thank for this mess. Well, that, and your morally questionable recruits and trainers." He added in as an afterthought, the words serving to bite deep at the rest of the gathered party

Rast's angry, beady black eyes turned to glare at himself, his pupils ablaze with a searing loathing. "Fuckin' cunt, you don't know anything bout' any of us. The Lord Commander ought to send your pretty little head down south to King Robert after the shit you did." He snarled hatefully through his gritted teeth, the older man struggling to sit upright through the pain.

He looked back down to the drunken man, with a dark, amused gleam dancing across his eyes as he leaned down to Rast's eye level ever so slowly. "He's more than welcome to try, little man," He said sweetly, his eyes glancing back down to Rast's legs with a wide grin. "But in the meantime, I could send you off to tell him yourself. I admit, it would be amusing to watch you walk back to him with your knee's bending the wrong way, walking just like the squawking bird you are."

Savoring the look of slowly building terror in the injured mans face, Darion grinned ever wider, the smile near splitting his face in two by now. He was broke out of his violent thoughts by a cough, glancing back to the old, blind Maester who still stood their beside himself, watching silently with unseeing eyes.

"Nelar, take Rast here, go find Lothar and head down to the Lord Commander's solar. He will decide on your punishments." He ordered brusquely, his voice taking on an edge Darion had thought long gone from the old fossil.

Nelar jumped to attention, pulling himself out of his seat by the fireplace and grabbing Rast with nary a murmur and heading out the room's door silently, his and his companions eyes downcast and trying to look anywhere but the two white haired men that filled the room.

As the door closed with a heavy thud, Aemon turned back to his seat at the side of the fire and moved to reclaim it once more. "You lack control." He stated, his scratchy voice echoed across the small chamber.

Darion snorted outwardly at the old man's statement, his pride believing the wizened man to be wrong entirely, though internally, something about the way the Maester had said it just seemed to chasten him and turn his mind anxious and somber.

"I lack control? You do realize I flew in here on a dragon right? I kinda have control of the entire keep, unofficially of course." He responded quickly, too quickly he realized with a small frown. Even he could hear the petulant tone in his own words, and it chafed at him irritably.

"You lack control of yourself," He amended calmly, his milky eyes gazing into the depths of the dancing flames sightlessly. "For someone as witty as yourself, I would expect you to catch my meaning much more quickly."

Feeling the rolling tide of anger come surging forth in his body like a boiling sea, Darion's face twisted into a snarl, his voice deepened and low as he made to speak, his words falling short as Aemon waved them away carelessly.

"You let your emotions rule over yourself and your decisions. Sometimes people can take it as a truly passionate person and become devoted to them wholeheartedly. Other times, they say or do something that they can never take back,"

The ancient man paused, a ragged breath leaving his lips with a sigh as he resumed. "But your different aren't you?" He asked with trepidation. "Yours is not just passion, or the vigor of youth, no, you have a madness to you child. A dark one that rests and rolls beneath the surface of the water you use to mask it. Your ideals, your humor, your morals, all used to hold it back."

The Maester's head of wispy white hair turned over to look right at Darion, his unseeing eyes seeming to burn and bore a whole through his entire being. "But you loose the beast when something threatens your ideals and loved ones. You give in to your dark nature and let it consume you, to bathe you in its blissful embrace. You claim not to be a Targaryen, yet the madness that lurks within you is more like us than you truly know."

Taking In a shaky breath Darion's gaze turned away from the Aemon's own, his thoughts willing himself to look anywhere but the old man's milky eyes and haunted face. "You wouldn't understand my situation, Maester. Not even a family filled with madness could compare to what I, and my predecessors had to deal with," He said quietly in reply, his voice having lost the edge it once held and fell down to the boy he had once been, the child that ran around picking pockets and stealing from merchant stalls in Wayrest, wondering whether his father would be nice to him that day, if he had done anything wrong or if he had been good as he had wanted.

"I don't deny it," He said with a sad smile. "That feeling of power that rests beneath the surface, that yearning need to use it in anyway I see fit. It nags at me every waking day. A little voice that, just, never, leaves."

Leaning against the side of the stone fireplace, feeling the heat of the fire waft over the cold stone and over his pale skin. "I block it out whenever I go about day to day life, but sometimes it does poke its head through the cracks." He admitted cautiously, his eyes glancing back to the Maester who still sat there, staring back at him rigid and unmoving.

Taking a breath, Darion continued. "But whenever I fight . . ." He trailed off, shaking his head as the memories of the hundreds of battles, people and creatures he fought and killed come surging back rapidly. "It just comes out. There is no putting the cat back in the bag once its out. Not until it's been satisfied, at least."

The old man's head turned his unseeing gaze away from his own, turning back to look back into the dancing flames, as though they held all the answers in the universe itself. "Young William said as much, though not in the same words."

His reply caught Darion's curiosity and brought his eyes to look back at the Maester questioningly. "You terrified him, you know. I had to use almost a third of my supply of milk of the poppy to get him to calm down. When he did, he told me of what he saw in the Haunted Forest, of how you relished in the battle, the carnage, and the bloodshed. He watched it all."

Darion nodded glumly at his words, giving the old man a silent confirmation. "Aye, I was angry. Angry at myself and what I had brought down on us all. It ate at me until the dam broke."

Maester Aemon made a small noise, a low sigh passing his lips, just barely audible to the Dragonborn's ears before he spoke again. "Though the madness is in you, I can see that your people help keep you grounded in reality. The person you lost out in the snow was one such person, I believe. The woman, Aela is another, though strenuous your relationship may be. Whatever is going on between the two of you it must be settled, if not for her sake, then for your own sanity."

Aemon Targaryen stopped for a moment, his face wistful. "What was it the Starks say? The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives?" He quoted with a small smile lighting up his wrinkled face.

Darion looked over at the kind old man quizzically, his mind still somewhat weary of the old Maester's words. "Why? Why would you even consider advising me? I promised to kill everyone in this castle just a few days ago." He asked curiously.

To which the lone Targaryen merely chuckled. "You wouldn't have killed us all. Your morals would have held you back for a time, but the main offender? No, their life would have been forfeit the moment the word reached your ears."

Maester Aemon stopped briefly again, his face turning serious once more as his aged face turned back to Darion's general direction. "You remind me of my family, in a way. You may hold more power than we ever did, but you still fight with the same corrupting influence that power holds over you. It drove many of my family to death and madness. Aerys Targaryen was a reasonable man once, full of bright ideas and a head full of colorful dreams. Power corrupted him in the end." He told breathlessly, his blind eyes looking up at Darion's own somberly.

"You may not be my blood, but if I can help another to stay themselves from the fall into madness then I will gladly do so."

The Dragonborn stood there a moment, leaning against the cold stone wall in a comfortable silence. Listening to the pine wood crack and split apart as the tongues of flame licked across their rough surfaces. They both stayed there like that, for what seemed an eternity to himself, before he finally decided to break the silence. It was getting pretty late, after all.

"I suppose I should take my leave then. It's getting late and it's a long ways down to Winterfell from what I've been told," He said awkwardly, pushing off from the stone wall with a swift movement. Darion paused a moment as he turned back to look at the Maester once more.

"And thank you, Maester Aemon, for your words of wisdom. They may not have been what I had wanted to hear, but I feel like I needed too all the same." He thanked him, his voice and words sincere, to which the old man merely smiled and nodded in acceptance of his thanks.

Seeing this, Darion made for the door, his bare hand grasping the cold steel handle as his ears picked up the Targaryen's raspy voice from behind him again.

"Darion, a final question if you will."

A bewildered expression taking root over his features, he replied. "Of course, what did you want to know?"

Aemon Targaryen's gaze continued to stare into the dancing flames of the fire pit, the tongues of flame darting across his eyes like reflections of thousands of birds.

"You like the fighting, of course, but what about the killing? Do you find pleasure in it, my lord?" He asked calmly, the question knocking the Dragonborn off balance as he stood their fixed in place.

For once in his life, Darion found himself at a loss for words. He wanted to let his tongue lash out indignantly and petulantly as he often did when incensed but the words died with a whimper in his throat. He knew the answer to the old man's question, but couldn't quite bring himself to speak the words.

Ashamed with himself and his sea green eyes downcast, Darion pulled the heavy wooden door open with a loud creak, stepping outside into the northern nights wintery air.

* * *

**Aaaaaaaannnd we're done! I suppose I should say a few things here before I cut it off. First up, yes, I know, Maester Aemon is not a pervert like Master Roshi from DBZ or anything like that.**

**I just kinda, saw a moment for comedic potential and tried my hand at it. Only time will tell if it came off well I guess.**

**Other than that, holy hell, do you know how hard it is to try and write from a blind characters POV? I thought it was gonna be all fine and dandy for awhile until I realized 'Oh right, he can't see. Shit.' So you may have noticed I tried for other types of descriptions there. Would like to know how that came off if you'd be so kind.**

**Tried my best on the whole bit in the mess hall going off of what I believe the characters emotions and thought patterns would have acted like, though Darion at the end of it started to feel a little bad even though he was pissed. Which kinda reflected from off of me on that one. If it came off as weird or passing strange, I'll take the hit for that one. As I've said before, I have zero experience in the ways of romance or how it works past a normal conversation or getting somebody to laugh.**

**Last thing, the quote from Theodore Roosevelt . . . Yep, not gonna deny that or make an excuse for it. Just liked it personally and thought it fit in with his personality.**

**Other than all of that, I think I may have covered everything at this point, so I'm gonna go ahead and get off of here for a bit. **

**Have a merry Christmas and happy New Years guys!**


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